: 


l^n 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Ben  and  his  farmyard  fri<?!)dH. —  Page  80. 


BEN'S    BOYHOOD. 


BY  MBS.  C.  E.  BOWEff. 


TO  WHICH  IS  ADDED, 


Trusted  and  Tried. 


^Boston: 
Published  by  0.  Mothrop  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


I. — INTRODUCES  MRS.   PAINE  AND  HER  LIT- 
TLE DAUGHTER  ALICE, 5 

H. — BEN  LEYTON  PONDERS  OVER  THE  QUES- 
TION WHETHER  HE  IS  A  "  PORPOISE  " 
OR  A  "  PAUPER," 14 

m. — WHAT    THE    BELLS    OF    ST.    MATHEWS 

CHURCH  SAY  TO  BEN, 22 

IV. — COURAGE  AND  A  COLD  BATH,      ...  34 

V. — BEN  TURNS  SNOW-SWEEPER,    ....  49 

VI. — JACK  BENBOW  TURNS  SCHOOL-MASTER,  58 

VH. — THE  RED  CLOAK, 63 

VIII. — RIPE  CHERRIES.       A    YOUNG    ROGUE, 

AND  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE,       ...      68 

IX. — BEN    TAKES    A    STEP    IN    LIFE  WHICH 

LEADS  TO  PROSPERITY, 79 

TRUSTED  AND   TRIED, 86 


622729 


feEJTS  <&OYHOO<D. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCES  MRS.  PAINE  AND   HER  LITTLE 
DAUGHTER   ALICE. 

,N  the  suburbs  of  the  country  town  of 
Bedfordshire  lived  some  years  ago  a 
widow  of  the  name  of  Paine,  who,  like 
many  of  her  neighbors,  earned  a  liveli- 
hood by  lace-making.  It  is  still  the  trade  of  the 
county,  but  has  been  greatly  injured,  late  years, 
by  the  introduction  of  machiner}^  which  supplies 
large  quantities  of  lace  to  those  who  are  satisfied 

to  wear  a  very  inferior  though  less  costly  article 

(5) 


6  Bens  Boyhood. 

than  the  lace  woven  on  the  pillow  by  finger 
industry. 

Mrs.  Paine  had  but  one  little  girl  to  provide 
for  besides  herself.  By  constant  industry  she 
contrived  to  pay  her  way  after  her  husband's 
death,  and  to  continue  in  the  small  but  pleasant 
cottage  where  they  had  lived  from  the  time  of 
their  marriage,  and  which  she  greatly  prized,  be- 
cause of  its  standing  in  a  garden  of  tolerable  size, 
—  always  a  boon  to  a  poor  person  who  knows 
how  to  make  the  most  of  it. 

As  soon  as  her  little  daughter  Alice  was  old 
enough  to  be  taught  the  art  of  lace-making  in  its 
very  simplest  form,  Mrs.  Paine  showed  her  tiny 
fingers  how  to  guide  the  bobbins ;  and  very  proud 
and  happy  was  the  child  when  she  was  made 
mistress  of  a  little  pillow  covered  with  red  cloth, 
and  a  large  number  of  white  and  brown  bobbins, 
each  one  adorned  with  a  pendant  of  sparkling, 
many-colored  beads. 

Day  after  day,  in  summer,  might  the  widow 
be  seen  seated  before  her  door  in  the  little  gar- 


Alice  learns  the  art  of  lace  making.  —  Page  6. 


A  Family  Picture.  7 

den,  busily  plying  her  occupation,  no  less  beau- 
tiful in  its  results  than  mysterious  to  the  unini- 
tiated in  its  execution.  Little,  bright  blue-eyed 
Alice  was  often  seated  on  her  low  chair  by  her 
mother's  side  with  her  pretty  red  pillow  on  her 
lap,  contrasting  its  bright  hues  with  the  golden 
curls  of  the  small  head  that  bent  over  it.  But 
Mrs.  Paine  would  not  confine  her  child  too  rigor- 
ously, and  Alice  might  as  often  be  seen  racing 
in  the  cottage  garden,  gathering  flowers,  or  trot- 
ting into  Bedford  on  some  errand  for  her  mother. 
Hard  as  she  worked  hour  by  hour,  Mrs.  Paine 
would  scarcely  have  been  able  to  make  ends 
meet,  and  pay  the  rent  of  her  cottage,  if  she  had 
depended  entirely  on  the  shops  for  the  sale  of 
her  lace.  They  were  always  ready  to  buy  it,  it 
is  true ;  but  the  price  they  gave  was  so  low, 
compared  to  that  which  they  received,  that  the 
poor  lace-makers  were  thankful  if  they  could  find 
purchasers  amongst  the  ladies  of  the  neighbor- 
hood who  would  pay  them  a  fair  remuneration 
for  their  labor.  Mis.  Paine's  lace  being  always 


8  Ben's    Boyhood. 

beautifully  made,  she  could  often  secure  a  pri- 
vate customer.  Especially  she  was  known  to  the 
young  ladies  belonging  to  a  large  school  in  Bed- 
ford. They  often  had  commissions  from  their 
parents  and  friends  to  purchase  for  them  some 
of  the  far-famed  Bedfordshire  pillow  lace,  and 
Mrs.  Paine  generally  was  pretty  sure  of  being 
sent  for  to  the  school  at  the  close  of  the  half- 
year,  when  all  was  bustle  and  preparation  for  the 
holidays.  On  such  occasions  she  was  allowed  to 
go  into  the  dining-room,  where  a  bev}r  of  the 
elder  girls  of  the  school  soon  collected  round  her 
basket,  some  as  purchasers,  some  as  admirers  of 
its  delicate  contents.  The  first  time  that  little 
Alice  Paine  accompanied  her  mother  was  after 
she  had  just  finished  several  yards  of  a  narrow 
lace,  the  first-fruits  of  her  own  industry.  She 
carried  it  in  a  little  basket  by  itself,  and,  like  her 
mother,  offered  it  for  sale.  When  it  was  known 
that  it  was  the  work  of  her  own  fingers,  the  tiny 
maiden's  head  might  almost  have  been  turned  by 
the  praises  bestowed  on  it,  and  by  the  number 


Alice**  Vast  Capital.  9 

of  purchasers  who  were  ready  to  give  the  very 
moderate  sum  for  which  it  was  offered,  but  which 
seemed  a  perfect  fortune  to  Alice,  who  was  to  be 
allowed  to  consider  it  all  her  own  to  spend  as 
she  pleased. 

Three  shillings  was  a  vast  capital  to  a  child 
who  had  never  before  possessed  more  than  a 
penny.  All  the  way  home  she  was  thinking 
what  should  be  done  with  it.  Every  possible 
and  impossible  purchase  was  discussed,  from  a 
new  gown  for  her  mother  to  a  variety  of  other 
articles ;  the  result  was  that  Alice  should  put  by 
half-a-crown  in  a  little  box,  till  some  urgent  want 
arose  which  did  not  appear  at  present ;  for  she 
was  a  most  unselfish  child,  and  would  not  at  all 
have  liked  spending  it  on  any  toy  or  pleasure  for 
herself.  One  great  happiness,  however,  she  had 
that  day.  Sixpence  she  took  to  old  Betty 
Brown,  who  was  always  so  thankful  for  a  drop 
of  lea  when  her  funds  could. afford  it,  which  was 
not  very  often.  A  windfall  therefore  such  as 
Alice's  sixpence  was  all  the  more  welcome,  and 


10  Een's   Boyhood. 

her  gratitude  was  accordingly  warmly  expressed 
to  the  happy  little  lace-inaker. 

One  day  a  letter  came  directed  to  Mr.  Paine. 
The  appearance  of  the  postman  at  their  cottago 
was  a  thing  so  unusual  that  it  brought  several  of 
the  neighbors  to  their  doors  to  gaze  in  momentary 
wonder  at  his  red  coat  and  budget  of  undelivered 
letters.  It  was  before  the  days  of  the  penny- 
postage,  and  the  sum  of  ninepence  was  im- 
patiently demanded  by  the  man,  who,  somewhat 
gruff  and  surly  by  nature,  seemed  to  think  that 
the  writer  of  this  letter  had  taken  an  unheard-of 
liberty  in  sending  him  so  much  out  of  his  usual 
course  to  the  humble  abode  at  the  door  of  which 
he  stood. 

"  Who  on  earth  can  have  been  writing  to 
me  ? "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Paine,  when,  having 
paid  the  postman  and  shut  the  cottage  door, 
she  examined  the  letter  carefully  outside  before 
breaking  the  seal,  which  seemed  impressed  with 
the  end  of  a  thimble.  "  Your  eyes  are  sharper 
than  mine,  Alice  ;  can  you  make  out  the  post- 
mark, —  all  blotted  as  it  is  ?  " 


Mr a.  Lei/ton's  Unexpected  Letter.  11 

"  Northampton,"  pronounced  Alice  on  exami- 
nation, and  with  all  the  dignity  of  the  lately 
newly-acquired  power  of  being  able  to  read. 

"  Northampton  !  that  is  where  my  old  friend 
Jessie  Leyton  lives,  who  married  a  sort  of  cousin 
of  mine.  I've  often  wanted  to  know  how  she 
and  her  boy  have  got  on  since  her  husband  died, 
and  I  shall  hear  at  last." 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Paine  sat  down  to  read  her 
letter,  which  ran  as  follows :  — 

"Mr  DEAR  MARY, 

"  I  write  to  you  from  my  dying  bed. 
Will  you  come  and  see  me  once  more  on  earth 
for  the  sake  of  old  times  when  we  were  girls,  and 
of  my  husband,  who  was  your  kin.  I  have  not 
many  days  to  live.  My  strength  is  failing  fast. 
Come  to  me  if  you  can. 

"  Your  Affectionate  Friend, 

JESSIE  LEYTON." 

Mrs.  Paine  was  a  good  deal  agitated  by  thia 


12  Ben's  Boyhood. 

letter.  She  and  Jessie  had  been  brought  up  in 
the  same  village,  —  gone  to  the  same  school,— 
and  had  lived  near  each  other  when  in  service. 
Jessie  had  married  a  bookseller,  who  might  have 
done  well  if  he  had  not  given  too  much  time  to 
reading  his  own  books,  and  too  little  to  attend- 
ing to  his  business.  He  was  a  man  who  had 
plenty  of  brains,  but  not  enough  common  sense ; 
consequently,  as  is  often  the  case  with  such 
people,  his  shop  affairs  did  not  prosper,  and  cus- 
tomers decreased,  till  at  length  he  gave  it  up. 

Whilst  still  living  on  what  his  small  stock 
sold  for,  Leighton  was  seized  with  cholera,  and 
died  in  a  few  days.  His  widow  and  their  one 
little  boy  were  left  to  face  absolute  poverty,  for 
her  health  had  become  delicate,  and  she  was  un- 
fit for  exertion.  She  struggled  on  for  a  year  or 
two,  and  then  disease  attacked  her  of  a  very 
serious  kind  ;  and  now  it  was  that  her  thoughts 
turned  to  her  who  was  almost  her  only  friend  in 
the  world,  and  she  wrote  to  beg  her  to  go  and 
see  her  before  she  died. 


A  Journey  Resolved  en.  13 

Mrs.  Paine  at  once  resolved  to  go,  and  she  saw 
no  time  must  be  lost.  But  it  is  not  an  easy  mat- 
ter for  the  poor  to  take  a  sudden  journey.  Mrs. 
Paine  had  to  ascertain  the  best  and  cheapest 
mode  of  getting  to  Northampton.  Also  sho 
must  either  leave  Alice  in  charge  of  some  one  or 
take  her  with  her.  She  decided  on  the  former 
plan.  A  neighbor  offered  to  receive  the  child, 
and  look  after  the  cottage  in  her  short  absence ; 
for  she  hoped  to  return  in  a  few  days.  There 
was  a  carrier's  cart,  she  found,  which  went  three 
times  a-week  from  Bedfprd  to  a  place  whence 
she  could  take  the  coach  to  Northampton,  and 
her  return  could  be  managed  in  the  same  man- 
ner. So  the  next  day  she  left  Alice  in  the 
neighbor's  care,  and  started  on  her  journey  of 
friendship  and  kindness. 


CHAPTER  II. 

BEN   LEYTON  PONDERS  OVER  THE  QUESTION  OF 

WHFTHER  HE  IS   A   "PORPOISE"   OR  A 

"  PAUPER." 

IETTER-WRITING  was  in  former  days 
thought  a  much  greater  business  by  the 
lower  classes  than  it  is  now.  Alice  had 
no  expectation  of  hearing  from  her 
mother  during  her  absence,  and  was  quite  con- 
tent to  wait  patiently  for  return  in  a  few  days. 
More  than  a  week,  however,  passed  before 
Mrs.  Paine  returned,  and  then,  to  Alice's  un- 
speakable surprise,  she  was  accompanied  by  a 
rosy-faced,  sturdy  little  boy  of  about  eight  years 

old  1     Greater  still  was  she  astonished  when  she 
(14) 


Mrs.  Paine  takes  Sen.  15 

found    that    he   was    henceforth  to  live    with 
them. 

"  I  found  that  he  must  go  to  the  workhouse," 
said  Mrs.  Paine,  "  and  I  couldn't  bear  the 
thought  of  it.  His  poor  mother  had  no  idea  of 
my  taking  him  when  she  asked  me  to  go  to  her, 
but  she  said  she  should  like  to  know  that  I 
would  inquire  about  him  now  and  then,  and 
give  him  a  word  of  advice  by  letter,  that  he 
might  not  feel  there  was  no  one  to  care  for  him. 
So  I  thought  to  myself,  *  Suppose  I  were  on  my 
death-bed,  and  it  was  Alice  going  to  the  work- 
house, how  should  I  feel  ?  '  Then  I  began  to  long 
to  take  the  boy,  and  I  thought  and  thought,  till  at 
last  I  told  poor  Jessie  that  whilst  I  had  a  home 
little  Ben  should  have  one  too  —  and  so  here  he 
is.  A  nice  little  fellow.  It  was  a  sorrowful 
time  with  the  poor  child  when  he  found  his 
mother  was  gone,  but  he'll  soon  get  settled  with 
us.  We  shall  go  on  making  ends  meet  some- 
how, I  dare  say.  In  a  few  years  he'll  be  able  to 
do  something  for  himself." 


16  Ben**  Boyhood. 

All  this  was  said  to  the  neighbor,  Mrs.  Lang- 
ley,  who  had  been  taking  charge  of  Alice,  and 
who  was  disposed  to  think  Mrs.  Paine  had  done 
rather  a  rash  thing. 

At  all  events,  little  Alice  did  rot  disapprove. 
She  received  Ben  with  open  arms ;  showed  him 
the  garden,  with  its  various  treasures  in  the 
shape  of  rose-bushes,  creepers,  etc.  etc.,  and, 
above  all,  the  tiny  arbor  in  the  corner,  made  by 
her  father's  own  hands  ;  promised  that  he  should 
have  half  of  the  little  flower-bed  called  hers; 
and  offered  to  teach  him  to  make  lace,  saying, 
she  was  sure  mother  would  give  him  a  pillow  of 
his  own  when  he  had  learned. 

But  Ben,  though  well  pleased  at  becoming 
partner  in  the  flower-bed,  shook  his  head  over 
the  lace  pillow.  "  That's  girls'  work,"  he  said  ; 
"  Tm  a  boy." 

That  he  was  —  and  so  Mrs.  Paine  was  remind- 
ed every  hour  of  the  day.  A  high-spirited,  in- 
telligent, restless  boy,  always  active  and  eager 
to  be  doing  something,  but  always  affectionate, 
tractable,  and  anxious  to  be  useful. 


Ben's  Character.  17 

That  he  made  a  material  difference  in  the 
expenses  of  their  little  household  there  was  no 
denying,  and  Mrs.  Paine  found  it  impossible  to 
send  him  to  school  as  she  wished  to  do.  He 
could  read  and  write  a  little,  and  she,  being  her- 
self not  a  bad  scholar,  used  to  teach  him  and 
Alice  evenings ;  and  both  of  them  went  to  Sun- 
day-school regularly. 

Like  most  children  of  his  age,  Ben  took  life  as 
it  came,  not  troubling  his  head  beyond  the 
affaire  of  the  day. 

When  his  mother  died,  be  accompanied  Mrs. 
Paine  to  Bedford  without  feeling  any  wonder 
that  she  took  him  with  her.  He  easily  slipped 
into  being  Alice's  brother  and  a  little  son  to 
Auntie  Paine,  as  he  called  her,  and  had  no  idea 
of  being  under  obligation  of  any  kind  more  than 
all  the  other  children  around  were  to  those  they 
lived  with.  Mrs.  Paine  was  not  one  who  would 
ever  remind  him  that  she  took  him  to  avoid  his 
being  sent  to  the  workhouse.  She  believed  she 

was  doing  her  duty  as  a  Christian  woman  in  giv- 
2 


18  J5en'«  Boyhood. 

ing  him  a  home,  and  she  looked  for  no  other 
approval  but  that  of  God  and  her  own  conscience. 

Ben  was  sure,  however,  to  have  his  eyes 
opened  sooner  or  later  to  the  fact  that  he  was 
peculiarly  circumstanced. 

The  winter  was  a  very  severe  one  that  year. 
Provisions  were  high, —  coals  were  dear.  Tho 
lace  trade  did  not  flourish.  "  Times  were  hard," 
was  a  universal  remark.  Mrs.  Paine  felt  the 
truth  of  it,  but  said  little.  Not  for  one  instant 
did  she  regret  having  taken  Ben,  and  neither  he 
nor  Alice  knew  that  she  often  worked  far  into 
the  night  at  her  lace  pillow  to  earn  needful 
clothing  for  the  two.  They  did  not  know  that 
she  often  arose  unsatisfied  from  a  meal  in  order 
that  they  might  have  enough.  Nor  did  they 
perceive  that  their  clothing  was  warmer  than 
hers. 

But  one  day  Ben  came  in  with  a  puzzled  look 
on  his  face.  Mrs.  Paine  was  gone  out  to  sell  some 
lace  at  a  shop,  so  he  asked  Alice  the  question 
that  was  on  his  mind. 


Bens   Difficulty.  19 

"  Alice,  do  you  know  what  the  word  paupers 
means? " 

"Yes,"  said  Alice,  with  an  air  of  conscious 
knowledge,  "  I  know  quite  well ;  it  means  a 
-great  fish  that  swims  and  rolls  about  in  the 
sea.  There  is  the  picture  of  one  in  my  spelling- 
book."  Ben  looked  more  puzzled  than  ever; 
Alice's  explanation  had  evidently  not  cleared 
matters  to  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  for,  Ben  ?  " 

"  Because  I  heard  Mrs.  Langley  say  to  her 
husband,  when  I  went  there  for  Auntie  to-day, 
that  they  were  giving  away  warm  clothing  at 
Squire  Powell's,  and  that  I  had  a  right  to  some, 
for  I  was  after  all  only  one  of  the  paupers ;  and 
Alice,  before  mother  died  I  remember  she  said  to 
Auntie  something  about  my  having  to  go  amongst 
paupers,  and  Auntie  said  I  never  should  while 
she  lived." 

"  How  very  strange,"  replied  Alice  ;  "  it  sounds 
just  as  if  your  mother  was  afraid  some  one  would 
want  to  drown  you,  and  send  you  down  amongst 
the  fishes.  We  will  ask  mother  nboui  it." 


20  Bens   Boyhood. 

Mrs.  Paine  was  both  amused  and  pained  when 
the  children  asked  her  their  question.  She  ex- 
plained the  bungle  Alice  had  made  between  pau- 
pers and  porpoises,  but  in  so  doing  she  unavoid- 
ably enlightened  Ben  as  to  the  fact  of  his  depen- 
dent position.  Some  children  would  not  have 
troubled  themselves  about  the  matter,  but  Ben 
was  a  boy  of  no  ordinary  character,  as  after  events 
proved.  He  was  highly  sensitive,  too,  and  he 
pondered  over  Mrs.  Langley's  speech  about  his 
being  a  pauper  long  after  Mrs.  Paine  thought  he 
had  forgotten  it. 

"  Mrs.  Langley,"  said  he,  one  day,  when  he 
had  been  to  fetch  some  milk  for  her  at  her  re- 
quest, "  what  did  you  mean  the  other  day  about 
the  warm  clothing  at  Squire  Powell's ;  would 
they  give  me  some  if  I  asked  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  they  would  if  they  knew  all  about 
you,  but  I  don't  think  your  Auntie  Paine  would 
like  to  you  have  go  for  any.  She's  not  one  to  ask 
for  charity,  I'm  sure ;  yet  how  she  manages  to 
keep  you  and  Alice  looking  as  tidy  as  you  do, 
and  iu  such  warm  things,  I  don't  know." 


Mrs.  Paine  explains  the  difference  between  paupers  and  porpoises.  —  Pu^r  20. 


Mrs.  Langleys  Advice.  21 

"  Is  Auntie  Paine  poor  ?  "   asked  Ben. 

*'  Aye,  to  be  sure  she  is,  and  so  am  I,  and  so 
are  we  all  in  such  hard  times  as  these.  It's  noth- 
ing but  slave,  slave  from  morning  to  night,  and 
3Tet  one  can  scarcely  keep  body  and  soul  together. 
But  there,  child,  what  can  you  understand  about 
it  ?  Run  home  ;  and  mind  that  you  are  always 
a  grateful  boy  to  your  Auntie,  as  you  call  her, 
for  she's  been  a  kind  friend  to  you  when  you'd 
no  other.  When  you  get  to  be  a  large  boy,  you 
must  try  and  support  yourself,  and  not  be  a  bur- 
den on  her  any  longer." 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHAT  THE    BELLS  OF   ST.   MATTHEW'S  CHUECH 
SAY  TO  BEN. 

EN  walked  away  from  Mrs.  Langley's  cot- 
tage at  a  much  slower  pace  than  was  usual 
with  him.  Nor  did  he  feel  inclined  to  go 
home  just  then.  He  had  a  great  deal  to 
think  about,  and  he  was  unhappy.  It  was  a 
bright,  cold  day,  so  he  put  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets to  keep  them  warm,  and  turned  down  a  road 
leading  away  from  the  town.  Oh,  how  he  longed 
for  his  mother  to  come  back  and  feed  him  and 
clothe  him  again  I  Auntie  Paine  was  very  kind, 

but  then  he  did  not  belong  rightfully  to  her,  or 
(22) 


The  Workhouse  Children.  23 

to  anybody.  She  had  only  taken  him  out  of 
charity,  and  she  was  poor,  Mrs.  Langley  said, 
and  perhaps  she  could  hardly  afford  to  keep  him. 
He  remembered  several  things  now  which  he 
had  not  thought  anything  of  before.  For  in- 
stance, that  very  cape  he  had  on  to  keep  out  the 
cold,  frosty  air,  was  made  out  of  the  large  cape 
of  Auntie  Paine's  cloak.  She  wore  her  cloak 
without  a  cape  now,  and  said  it  was  still  warm 
enough.  He  felt  sure  that  she  only  took  it  off 
and  cut  it  up  for  him  because  his  every-day 
jacket  was  so  thin,  and  she  could  not  afford  to 
buy  him  another. 

Then  again  he  remembered  how  he  had  some- 
times heard  her  bobbins  going,  when  he  had 
woke  up,  what  seemed  to  him,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night.  He  had  wondered  always  that  she 
could  like  to  sit  working  so  late,  when  she  might 
be  snug  in  bed  as  he  was ;  but  then  he  had 
turned  round  and  gone  to  sleep  again,  and 
thought  no  more  about  it.  Now,  however,  he 
understood  better  about  these  things.  She  only 


24  Ben's   Boyhood. 

worked  so  late  in  order  to  make  more  lace  to  sell, 
not  because  she  liked  sitting  up. 

Just  then  he  heard  a  sound  as  of  many  feet 
coming  along  the  frosty  road.  Tramp,  tramp, 
tramp,  sounded  from  behind,  and  looking  round 
he  saw  a  long  row  of  children  walking  two  and 
two,  all  dressed  alike,  with  their  hair  cut  very 
short.  He  knew  them  to  be  the  workhouse 
children,  who  Mrs.  Paine  had  explained  to  him 
bore  the  name  of  paupers,  —  the  word  which  had 
so  puzzled  him. 

He  looked  at  them  with  very  uncomfortable 
feelings  just  now.  He  had  always  pitied  them 
so.  Not  that  they  looked  ill  or  unhappy,  but 
because  he  knew  how  poor  and  friendless  most 
of  them  were.  To-day  he  felt  as  though  he 
ought  to  be  amongst  them,  rather  than  a  burden 
on  Auntie  Paine.  Mrs.  Langley  had  used  that 
word  burden  with  respect  to  him,  and  he  knew 
that  he  must  be  one.  He  almost  felt  inclined  to 
go  up  to  the  matron  who  was  walking  wiLh  the 
children,  and  ask  her  to  take  him  in  with  them 


The  Matron*  Reproof.  25 

and  keep  him.  He  even  took  a  step  or  two 
towards  her,  his  heart  beating  very  fast;  but 
just  at  that  moment  one  of  the  children  ran  out 
of  the  ranks  in  which  they  were  walking,  to 
gather  a  bunch  of  holly  berries  from  the  hedge. 
She  had  evidently  broken  the  rules,  for  the 
matron  gave  her  a  cuff  on  the  shoulder  and 
spoke  angrily,  desiring  her  not  to  be  disorderly. 
Ben  stepped  back  very  quickly  and  walked 
towards  home  as  fast  as  he  could  go.  He 
thought  it  would  be  terrible  not  to  be  allowed  to 
run  about  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere  when 
he  went  out.  He  had  good  sense  enough  to  see 
that  if  it  were  against  rules  for  the  children  to 
stop  to  gather  anything  from  the  hedges,  the  lit- 
tle girl  ought  not  to  have  done  so,  and  that  she 
deserved  reproof.  But  to  have  to  keep  such  a 
rule  he  thought  must  be  dreadful,  as  well  as 
having  to  walk  in  that  set,  orderly  manner,  two 
and  two.  No,  he  would  not  ask  to  be  taken  into 
the  workhouse  ;  he  must  try  and  think  of  some 
other  way  of  ceasing  to  be  a  burden  to  Auntie 
Paine. 


26  Sen's  Boyhood. 

"  Oh  !  that  I  were  a  big  boy  instead  of  .a  little 
one!"  Ben  said  aloud  to  himself;  "then  I 
could  work  and  help  myself,  as  Mrs.  Langley 
says." 

He  had  climbed  on  a  gate  leading  into  a  field 
by  the  roadside,  and  his  arms  were  resting  on  tha 
top  bar.  He  did  not  perceive  that  any  one  was 
near  him  till  he  felt  a  smart  tap  on  his  back,  and 
a  tall,  good-natured  looking  man  asked  him  why 
he  was  talking  to  himself  in  that  queer  sort  of 
way. 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  Ben,  rather  startled,  and 
frightened  out  of  his  reverie  into  his  usual  frank, 
childlike  manner,  "  I  was  only  saying  I  wished 
I  was  a  big  boy  instead  of  a  little  one." 

"  And  why  do  you  wish  that  ?  " 

"  Because  then  I  could  work  and  help  myself." 

"  Well,  you  look  ar>  if  you'd  be  a  strong,  sturdy 
fellow  one  of  these  days ;  in  the  meantime,  sup- 
pose j'ou  move  out  of  the  way,  and  let  me  pass 
through  the  gate ;  and  here,  hold  this  stick  for 
me  whilst  I  unlock  the  padlock ;  though  you 


Ben  and  the  Farmer.  27 

are^a  little  boy,  you've  got  hands  and  feet,  and 
it's  not  too  soon  to  learn  the  use  of  them  at  all 
events." 

Ben  felt  rather  ashamed  that  he  had  not  moved 
out  of  the  farmer's  way  without  being  told,  and 
that  he  had  not  offered  to  hold  his  stick  without 
being  asked.  He  received  a  good-humored  nod 
from  him  as,  having  locked  the  gate  on  the  other 
side,  the  tall,  strong  man  took  his  stick  and 
walked  off  over  his  well-ploughed  field. 

Ben  noticed  what  large  feet  and  hands  he  had, 
and  then  he  gave  a  look  at  his  own  small  ones 
with  a  feeling  almost  akin  to  contempt. 

"  Such  strides,  too,  as  those  long  legs  of  his 
can  take,"  thought  Ben ;  "  he's  half  over  the 
field  already  ;  it  would  have  taken  me  twice  as 
long  to  go  that  distance.'' 

Just  then  a  pretty  little  terrier  dog  came  run- 
ning up  the  road,  sniffing  the  way  after  his  mas- 
ter. He  whined  because  he  could  neither  get 
through  the  bars  of  the  gate,  nor  leap  over  the 
top  of  it.  He  looked  up  into  Ben's  face,  almost 


28  Ben  %  Boyhood. 

asking  him  to  lift  him  over.  The  boy  did  so, 
and  then  laughed  at  the  furious  speed  with  which 
the  little  creature  scampered  over  the  broad, 
rough  furrows  till  he  gained  his  master's  side. 

"Well  done,  little  fellow,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  you've  caught  up  with  him  quickly,  yet  your 
legs  and  feet  are  much  shorter  and  smaller  than 
mine.  To  be  sure  you've  got  four  of  each,  and 
I've  only  two,  but  then  your  four  put  together 
are  not  nearly  so  big  as  my  two  ?  " 

At  that  moment  Ben's  eye  caught  sight  of 
something  bright  lying  on  the  ground.  It  was 
the  key  of  the  padlock,  which  had  evidently  been 
dropped  by  the  farmer. 

Ben  scrambled  over  the  gate  in  an  instant,  and 
picked  it  up.  Although  the  field  was  not  a 
thoroughfare,  he  thought  he  could  riot  be  doing 
trrong  in  going  across  it  to  catch  the  farmer  arid 
give  him  his  key,  but  he  must  be  as  nimble  as 
the  dog  was,  or  he  should  lose  sight  of  him. 

"  Now  legs  and  feet  off  with  you,  though  you 
tire  so  small,"  quoth  Ben,  and  off  they  went  at 


The  Lost  Key.  29 

his  bidding  at  a  pace  that  did  them  credit.  To 
be  sure,  they  failed  him  once,  for  the  ploughed 
ground  being  hard  with  frost,  and  the  ridges 
high,  he  was  suddenly  tripped  up  by  a  lump  of 
earth,  and  found  himself  going  heels  over  head 
into  a  furrrow.  But  that  was  a  trifle ;  he  was 
up  again  in  a  second,  and,  panting  and  breath- 
less, soon  came  up  to  the  farmer,  who  seeing  him 
running  guessed  that  something  had  happened, 
and  sat  down  on  the  stile  at  the  other  end  of  the 
field  to  wait  for  him.  Ben  could  not  speak  at 
first ;  he  could  only  hold  out  the  key  with  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  pat  the  little  dog,  who, 
"emembering  the  service  he  had  done  him  at  the 
gate,  leaped  up  and  fawned  upon  him. 

"  Hollo,  little  man,  so  you've  taken  my  advice 
already,  and  begun  to  use  your  hands  and  feet, 
and  in  my  service,  too.  I  should  have  been  sorry 
to  have  lost  my  key,  for  it's  one  that  opens  all 
the  gates.  Now  suppose  I  see  what  my  hands 
can  find  to  reward  yours  with." 

"  I  don't  want  any  reward,  sir,"  said  Ben. 
stoutly. 


30  Sen's   Boyhood. 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  for  all  that  3-011  won't  refuse 
a  present  of  a  sixpence  if  I  give  it  to  you." 

The  farmer  had  taken  out  a  leather  purse, 
from  which  he  tried  to  extract  one,  but  his  fin- 
gers were  so  cold,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  Ben,  so 
big,  that  they  fumbled  and  fumbled  without 
being  able  to  catch  hold  of  so  small  a  coin.  At 
length  he  held  the  purse  to  Ben,  and  desired 
him  to  take  it  out  for  himself. 

The  lad's  small  fingers,  warm  with  the  exercise 
of  his  run,  quickly  drew  forth  a  sixpence  from 
the  pocket  of  the  purse,  for  which  he  thanked 
the  farmer  with  a  bow.' 

"  You  see  small  hands  are  sometimes  better  in 
getting  money  than  large  ones,"  said  the  farmer, 
laughing. 

He  looked  so  good-naturedly  at  him,  as  he 
said  this,  that,  plucking  up  all  his  courage,  Ben 
ventured  to  say,  — 

"  Please,  sir,  could  you  give  me  any  work  to 
do?" 

"I'm   afraid    not,   my   lad,    my   work    wanta 


The  farmer  desires  Ben  to  take  sixpence  out  of  his  leather  purse.  —  Page  30. 


Jack  Benbow.  81 

strength ;  but  when  you  get  larger,  come  to  me 
and  I'll  see  about  it.  In  the  meantime  look 
sharp,  and  you'll  often  be  able  to  find  work  for 
small  hands  and  feet." 

He  whistled  to  his  dog,  and  got  over  the  stile. 
Ben  turned  the  other  way  and  recrossed  the 
field,  not  running  now,  but  with  a  brisk  step, 
and  feeling  much  happier  than  before  he  saw  the 
farmer.  That  sixpence  was  a  very  pleasant  little 
possession ;  but  it  was  not  so  much  that  which 
had  lightened  his  spirit,  as  a  sort  of  idea  that 
was  arising  in  his  mind  that,  child  though  he  was, 
he  might  find  ways  and  means  of  helping  to  sup- 
port himself.  He  was  nothing  but  a  pauper, 
Mrs.  Langley  had  said.  A  pauper  he  had  ascer- 
tained was  one  who  had  to  be  entirely  supported 
by  others.  So  he  really  was  a  pauper,  though  a 
very  comfortable  one,  with  such  a  snug  home, 
and  such  a  kind  auntie  and  sister.  But  if  he 
could  earn  money  he  would  not  be  a  pauper  of 
any  sort.  He  knew  a  big  orphan  boy  named 
Jack  Benbow,  who  q^uite  kept  himself;  at  least 


32  Ben's   Boyhood. 

he  paid  a  woman  so  much  a-week  for  providing 
for  him,  which  was  the  same  thing.  If  only  he 
could  earn  something  to  pay  Auntie  Paine  every 
week  he  should  be  —  not  a  pauper  —  but  —  but 
—  in  vain  Ben  tried  to  think  of  the  word  "  inde- 
pendent," which  was  the  one  he  wanted.  It 
would  not  come  into  his  head,  so  he  summed  up 
his  thoughts,  with  Jack  Benbow's  somewhat 
inelegant  mode  of  speaking  —  viz.,  that  "  he 
would  then  be  on  his  own  hook." 

Those  last  words  of  the  farmer's  ran  in  his 
head,  —  "  You'll  often  be  able  to  find  work  for 
small  hands  and  feet."  He  began  to  think  those 
little  members  of  his  need  not  be  so  much 
despised  after  all. 

There  had  been  a  gay  wedding  that  day  in 
Bedford,  and  the  sweet-toned  bells  of  the  church 
suddenly  struck  up  a  merry  peal  as  Ben  climbed 
over  the  gate  into  the  road.  He  quite  started, 
for  they  seemed  to  ring  out  seven  words  so 
plainly,  and  those  seven  words  were  the  very 
same  that  the  farmer  had  said :  — 


The  Sells.  33 

"Find  work  for  small  hands  and  feet." 
u  Find  work  for  small  hands  and  feet." 
"Find  work  for  small  hands  and  feet." 

And  so  they  went  on,  and  on,  and  on.  Just 
those  words  and  nothing  more  to  Ben's  ear; 
no  others  would  they  say. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

COURAGE  AND  A  COLD  BATH. 


Ben  got  home,  Alice  was  looking 
out  for  him.  She  loved  her  adopted 
brother  very  dearly,  and  did  not  like  to 
have  him  long  from  her.  She  and  her 
mother  little  suspected  what  had  been  troubling 
him,  for  his  face  was  now  bright  and  happy  as 
usual. 

"  Don't  the  bells  sound  pretty,  Ben  ?  "  said 
she.  "  Miss  Powell  is  married  to  day  ;  and  so 
that  is  why  they  are  ringing.  They  seem  as  if 
they  were  telling  us  all  to  wish  her  to  be 

happy." 

(34) 


Sen  not  a  Burden.  35 

**That  isn't  what  they  seem  to  say  to  me,'* 
said  Ben  ;  "  they  have  kept  on  one  sentence  all 
the  time  since  they  began;  such  a  funny  one, 
Alice,  — 

4  Find  work  for  small  hands  and  feet. ' " 

Alice  laughed  at  Ben's  queer  fancy ;  but 
she  understood  it  better  when  he  told  her  about 
his  meeting  the  farmer,  and  his  running  after 
him  with  the  key,  and  that  he  had  asked  him 
for  work,  but  that  he  was  too  weak  and  small 
for  him,  but  said  he  might  look  out,  and  find 
work  for  small  hands  and  feet. 

All  this  interested  Alice  extremely,  and  she 
no  longer  wondered  that  Ben  fancied  the  bells 
said  what  they  did  to  him. 

u  What  made  you  think  of  asking  the  farmer 
to  give  you  work,  Ben  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because  I  don't' like  to  be  a  burden  to  Auntie 
Paine,"  replied  Ben,  his  bright  face  growing 
doleful. 

"  You  are  not  a,  burden  1  "  exclaimed  Alice,  in- 
dignantly. 


86  Bens    Boyhood. 

"  Yes,  I  am,  Alice  ;  Mrs.  Langley  said  I  was, 
and  I  know  I  am." 

"  But  mother  likes  your  living  with  us  ;  I 
heard  her  say  the  other  day  that  she  loved  you 
as  well  as  if  you  were  her  own  boy." 

"  Still  she  is  poor,  and  has  to  work  harder 
because  I  am  here ;  besides,  Alice,  I  wanted 
work  to  do  because  I  am  only  a  pauper,  Mrs. 
Langley  says." 

"  Mother  would  be  very  angry  if  she  knew 
she  had  called  you  such  names,"  said  Alice,  her 
face  growing  scarlet  with  anger. 

"But  she  wasn't  calling  me  names,  Alice," 
said  Ben ;  "  she  was  speaking  quite  kindly  about 
it,  but  I  did  not  understand  what  a  pauper  was 
till  auntie  told  us." 

"  But  mother  said  it  was  poor  children  in  the 
workhouse  who  were  called  pauper  children ; 
those  who  had  no  relations  to  help  them." 

**  Yes ;  and  I  have  no  relations,  so  if  auntie  had 
not  taken  me,  I  should  have  gone  to  live  in  the 
workhouse.  But  she  lets  me  live  with  you,  and 


Ben  and  Alice  Overheard.  37 

she  gives  me  my  food  and  clothes,  so  I  am  a 
pauper ;  only  I  am  her  pauper,  Alice." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  say  that  horrid  word 
any  more,"  exclaimed  Alice,  flinging  her  arms 
round  Ben's  neck,  for  she  saw  the  little  boy's 
eyes  were  filling  with  tears,  and  she  felt  that  her 
own  were  not  very  far  off.  "  You  are  our  own 
dear  darling  Ben,  and  we  could  not  bear  to  be 
•without  you." 

The  children  had  no  idea  that  Mrs.  Paine  had, 
from  the  little  back  ki'.chen,  overheard  their  con- 
versation. She  took  no  notice  of  it  just  then, 
however. 

But  in  the  evening,  when  the  bells  began  to 
ring  again,  Alice  asked  her  mother  whether  she 
had  ever  put  words  to  bells. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Paine.  "  I  never  hear 
those  bells  that  are  ringing  now  without  being 
reminded  of  my  dear  father's  death.  I  was  al- 
most a  child  then.  He  was  a  good  and  holy 
man,  and  though  he  knew  he  was  dying,  and 
that  he  was  leaving  his  wife  and  children  to 


88  JJen's    Boyhood. 

struggle  alone,  he  said  he  felt  sure  God  would 
take  care  of  them,  and  never  let  them  want. 
And  he  bid  me  learn  by  heart  a  text  from  Jere- 
miah (xlix.  11),  —  'Leave  thy  fatherless  child- 
ren, I  will  preserve  them  alive.'  He  wished  me 
often  to  repeat  it  to  him  the  last  few  days  of  his 
life.  After  he  was  gone  I  used  to  say  it  to  my- 
self; and  it  was  very  comforting  to  think  that 
God  had  made  such  a  promise  in  His  holy  Word. 
"  Father  died  about  a  week  before  the  new 
year  came  in.  On  the  last  night  of  the  old  year 
I  was  lying  awake  in  my  own  little  bed,  when  at 
a  little  before  midnight  the  church  bell  suddenly 
began  to  toll  the  old  year  out,  as  it  was  always 
the  custom  for  it  to  do  in  our  village.  Though 
I  had  heard  it  before  every  year  since  I  was  a 
baby,  I  had  never  felt  it  so  sad  and  solemn 
Bounding  as  now.  Perhaps  that  was  because 
the  same  bell  had  tolled  for  father's  funeral  only 
two  days  before.  Anyhow,  I  know  I  lay  and 
cried,  and  wondered  what  would  become  of  us. 
Then  the  verse  father  made  me  learn  came  into 


Mrs.  Paints  Father.  39 

my  vnind,  and  I  said  it  over  several  times  to  my- 
Belf,  till  I  think  I  was  just  going  to  sleep  saying 
it,  when  suddenly  the  bells  began  to  ring  in  the 
new  year  with  a  most  lively  peal.  Our  ven- 
erable church  was  noted,  far  and  wide,  for  its 
seven  sweet  bells. 

"  The  sound  roused  me  up  directly ;  and  as 
they  rang  they  seemed  to  keep  saying  the  words 
I  had  been  repeating  to  myself, — 

*  Leave  thy  fatherless  children, 
I  will  preserve  them  alive.' 

They  went  on  ringing  and  speaking  till  I  fell  fast 
asleep.  Ever  after  that  night  I  never  heard  the 
bells  ring  without  fancying  they  were  saying 
those  words;  and  when  I  came  to  live  here  I 
was  quite  glad  to  find  that  there  was  a  peal  of 
seven  bells  within  sound  again,  which  I  could 
make  say  the  same  text  to  me,  for  of  course  one 
can  make  bells  say  just  what  one  pleases,  as  it  is 
fancy  after  all." 

"  And  did  your  midnight  bells  speak  the  truth, 


40  Ben's  Boyhood. 

mother  ?  "  asked  little  Alice ;  "  were  you  always 
taken  care  of?" 

"  Yes,  my  child  ;  I  was  going  to  tell  you  how- 
good  God  was  to  us  all.  He  raised  us  up  kind 
friends,  who  helped  my  mother,  and  enabled  her 
to  see  all  her  children  well  provided  for  before 
her  death.  God  always  fulfils  His  promises, 
though  sometimes  in  one  way,  sometimes  in  an- 
other. Often  He  takes  care  of  His  little  ones  by 
giving  them  kind  friends  to  care  for  and  love 
them,  when  He  takes  away  their  own  parents, 

"  This,"  continued  Mrs.  Paine,  "  is  the  way  in 
which  He  has  cared  for  you,  His  fatherless  child, 
Ben,"  and  she  drew  the  boy  to  her  side,  and 
placed  her  arms  tenderly  round  him.  "He 
looked  on  you  as  His  own  care  from  the  moment 
your  mother  died,  and  it  was  He  who  made  me 
wish  to  bring  you  home  with  me,  and  be  as  a 
mother  to  you." 

She  had,  as  she  intended,  touched  the  aching, 
tender  spot  in  the  poor  little  orphan  child's  heart 
with  true  balm. 


Ben't  Brain  Busy.  41 

Ben  threw  his  arms  round  her  neck,  and  told 
her  how  unhappy  he  had  been  at  the  thought  of 
being  a  burden  to  her,  and  opened  out  all  that 
was  on  his  mind,  as  he  had  done  to  Alice  in  the 
morning.  He  ended  by  laying  the  sixpence  the 
farmer  had  given  him  on  her  lap,  and  asking  her 
to  use  it. 

"  No,  Ben,"  she  said,  "  that  is  yours,  and  I 
would  much  rather  that  you  kept  it  to  spend  as 
you  like.  When  you  get  older  you  will  be  able 
to  earn  regular  wages,  and  those  I  will  take." 

"  What  will  you  put  me  to  do  when  I  get  big, 
auntie  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  yet,  my  dear ;  you  are  so 
fond  of  reading  and  writing  with  me,  that  I 
should  like  to  have  you  go  to  school  as  soon  as  1 
can  afford  it ;  you  would  have  a  better  chance 
of  getting  on  if  you  were  something  of  a  scholar. 
But  I  don't  see  any  way  of  sending  either  }TOU  or 
Alice  this  winter,  as  I  had  hoped  to  do.  Per- 
haps times  may  improve  after  a  while  ;  and  you 
are  getting  on  a  little,  I  think,  even  with  my  poor 
tejichincr." 


42  Sen's  Boyhood. 

Ben  went  to  bed  that  evening  with  a  light 
heart,  but  with  more  than  ever  to  think  about. 
He  lay  awake  with  his  brain  working  away  at 
the  old  query  of  his  morning's  walk, — "How 
could  he  earn  money  so  as  not  to  be  a  burden  to 
Auntie  Paine  ?  " 

He  was  more  than  ever  anxious  about  it  since 
she  had  talked  to  him  so  kindly.  His  heart  felt 
quite  running  over  with  love  for  her.  He  began 
to  build  up  the  most  beautiful  schemes  for  show- 
ing her  his  love  and  gratitude ;  schemes  which 
always  ran  thus: — Hard  work  for  him;  plenty 
of  money  earned  by  him  for  her  and  Alice.  No 
more  work  for  them ;  a  pretty  new  house  and 
larger  garden ;  a  donkey  for  Alice,  because  she 
liked  riding  on  one.  (The  donkey  was  changed 
to  a  pony  in  the  last  scheme.)  A  new  cloak  for 
Auntie  Paine  because  hers  was  without  a  cape ; 
a  new  dress  for  Alice  —  and  —  but  Ben  got  so 
drowsy  just  here,  that  his  ideas  all  ran  into  one 
great  jumble.  The  house,  and  pony,  and  cloak, 
mixed  themselves  up  somehow  in  the  oddest  way, 


His  Numerous  Schemes.  43 

and  prevented  his  remembering  what  the  other 
thing  was  he  was  going  to  get  foi  Alice.  Nor 
did  he  find  out,  for  he  dropped  into  a  sound 
sleep,  and  did  not  wake  again  till  morning,  when, 
on  opening  his  eyes  and  looking  out  of  the  little 
window  of  his  room,  he  saw  that  it  had  been 
snowing  heavily  in  the  night,  and  that  every- 
thing outside  had  a  thick  white  covering  on.  It 
looked  all  very  beautiful,  but  so  cold !  Ben 
shivered  as  he  sat  up  in  bed,  and  instead  of 
jumping  out  quickly,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
doing  when  he  woke,  he  laid  himself  snugly  down 
again,  and  pulled  up  the  bed-clothes,  till  they 
covered  even  his  nose  and  chin.  He  only  left 
his  eyes  outside,  because  he  liked  looking  at  the 
snow,  which  grew  whiter  and  brighter  every  mo- 
ment as  the  sun  began  to  shine  on  it. 

His  thoughts  naturally  turned  on  what  he  had 
been  thinking  about  when  he  fell  asleep  the  night 
before.  By  the  morning  light  things  seemed 
rather  more  difficult  to  accomplish. 

Instead  of  looking  to  the  results  of  his  intended 


44  jBew'«  Boyhood. 

work,  —  in  the  shape  of  new  house,  new  pony 
new  cloak,  new  dress,  etc.,  —  he  had  to  think 
about  beginnings.  Before  all  that  quantity  of 
money  could  be  secured  which  was  to  buy  these 
things,  and  enable  his  aunt  and  Alice  to  sit  down 
and  be  idle,  as  he  meant  them  to  do  when  it 
came,  he  must  find  out  how  to  begin  and  earn 
even  one  shilling !  The  song  of  the  bells  came 
to  his  mind, — 

"Find  work  for  small  hands  and  feet." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Ben  to  himself,  pulling  the 
sheet  a  little  higher  -over  his  nose,  as  a  slight 
draught  from  a  crack  in  the  window  fluttered 
over  its  bridge,  "  yes,  yes,  it's  all  very  easy  for 
you  seven  Mr.  Bells,  with  your  seven  loud 
tongues,  to  keep  telling  me,  as  you  did  yester- 
day, that  I  am  to  find  work,  but  where  am  I  to 
get  it  ?  Just  ring  again  and  tell  me,  please." 

The  bells  were  silent,  but  there  was  another 
voice  that  spoke  in  reply  to  the  request  Ben  had 
just  made.  Nobody  but  himself  heard  what  it 
said,  it  was  so  very  faint  and  gentle  :  — 


What  the  Voice  Said.  45 

"  You  will  never  find  work,  or  earn  money, 
by  lying  here  in  bed.'* 

Now  Ben  heard  that  little  voice  very  plainly 
indeed,  but  he  was  rather  sorry  it  spoke.  It  was 
such  a  very  cold  morning,  and  so  much  pleasant- 
er  inside  the  bed  than  out  of  it  that  he  felt  dis- 
inclined to  move. 

So  he  went  on  lying  quite  still,  his  bright 
black  eyes  gazing  at  the  snow,  and  watching 
two  little  sparrows  which  were  playing  on  the 
roof  of  a  cottage  near. 

Soon  he  heard  Mrs.  Paine  moving  about  below, 
and  raking  out  the  fire.  He  had  brought  in 
some  sticks  the  evening  before,  and  he  heard  her 
break  them  as  she  laid  the  fire  ;  and  then  he 
liked  hearing  them  crackle  as  they  began  to  burn 
up.  It  was  very  snug  lying  there  listening  to  all 
the  sounds,  but  it  was  a  sort  of  guilty,  uncom- 
fortable pleasure,  for  that  tiresome  little  voice 
kept  on  saying,  — 

"  You  will  never  get  work  or  earn  money  by 
lying  there." 


46  Bens  Boyhood. 

Whether  it  was  the  voice,  or  whether  it  was 
the  clock  striking  eight,  or  both,  or  neither,  I 
cannot  sajr ;  but  all  of  a  sudden  Ben  bounced  up, 
threw  off  the  bed-clothes,  and  jumped  out  on  the 
floor. 

A  large  earthen  pan  of  cold  water  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  Mrs.  Paine  was  a  very  particu- 
lar woman  about  some  things,  and  she  liked 
both  Alice  and  Ben  to  take  a  good  bath  every 
morning.  Ben  liked  it  in  the  summer  time  ;  he 
did  not  dislike  it  much  in  the  autumn;  since 
winter  came  he  had  rather  hated  it ;  but  this 
morning,  which  was  by  far  the  coldest  they  had 
had,  he  looked  at  it  with  dismay.  To  get  into 
that  bath  would  be  far  worse  than  getting  out 
of  bed  !  He  stood  for  a  moment  shivering  and 
looking  at  the  cold  water ;  then  turning  away 
from  it,  he  seized  hold  of  his  socks  and  put  them 
on,  having  decided  to  omit  his  bath  that  morn- 
ing. But  then  came  that  tiresome  little  \oico 
again  ;  I  do  not  know  exactly  what  it  said  this 
time,  but  I  fancy  it  was  something  about  not 


Cold   Bath.  47 

being  brave,  for  he  suddenly  drew  off  his  socks 
and  his  nightshirt,  and  made  a  leap  into  the  very 
middle  of  the  tub. 

He  showed  himself  no  mercy  from  that 
moment ;  not  an  inch  of  his  body  was  spared  the 
cold  water.  Feet,  legs,  body,  arms,  face,  head, 
and  hair,  got  it  in  their  turns,  and  with  such 
energy  were  they  soused,  that  it  almost  seemed 
as  though  Ben  were  punishing  them  all  round 
for  being  cowards. 

Then  came  the  great  coarse  towel  to  rub  them 
dry  ;  and  here  again  Ben  did  the  matter  well. 
He  rubbed  and  scrubbed  till  he  was  almost  as 
much  out  of  breath  as  when  he  ran  across  the 
ploughed  field  after  the  farmer.  But  he  had  his 
reward,  for  he  got  into  a  delightful  warm  glow 
all  over,  and  felt  so  well  and  happy  that  he 
could  not  help  whistling  the  rest  of  the  time  he 
was  dressing.  He  ran  down-stairs  with  his 
brown  hair  curling  all  over  his  head  in  little 
tight  rings  of  curls,  and  his  face  beaming  with 


48  Ben's  Boyhood. 

health  and  good  humor  to  such  an  extent  that 
Mrs.  Paine  said,  — 

"  Why,  Ben,  how  bright  you  look  I     The  snow 
agrees  with  you,  I  see." 


CHAPTER  V. 

BEN  TUKNS  SNOW-SWEEPER. 

I  EN  had  good  reason  to  look  bright.  He 
had  fought  two  battles  that  morning,  and 
come  off  victorious  in  each.  It  is  a  pleas- 
ant thing  to  be  a  conqueror,  whether  it  be 
in  the  case  of  good  Doctor  Livingstone  overcom- 
ing the  great  difficulties  of  his  African  researches, 
or  of  a  little  boy  fighting  against  his  inclination 
to  lie  in  a  warm  bed,  and  his  disinclination  to 
step  into  a  cold  bath.  The  consciousness  of 
being  a  victor  gives  a  sense  of  power.  Just  as 

Doctor  Livingstone  felt,  after  his  successful  ex- 
4  (49) 


50        .  JBens  Boyhood. 

ploits,  that  he  had  gained  confidence  and  courage 
to  go  on  and  make  fresh  discoveries,  so  did  our 
little  friend  Ben  feel  that,  having  fought  success- 
fully in  two  encounters  against  himself,  he  had 
acquired  more  power  and  more  spirit  for  any 
future  disagreeables. 

.  "  Is  the  snow  very  deep,  aunt  ?  "  asked  Ben, 
peeping  out  of  the  window. 

"  Yes,  so  deep  that  I  wet  my  feet  completely 
by  only  going  to  the  pump  to  fetch  a  kettle  of 
water  for  breakfast." 

There  was  a  pump  placed  for  the  convenience 
of  the  cottagers  in  the  centre  of  a  large  square 
patch  of  grass  called  "  The  Green,"  though 
scarcely  deserving  the  title.  The  water  in  thi* 
pump  was  so  superior  to  what  was  in  the  houses 
that  every  one  used  it  for  cooking  and  drinking 
purposes. 

"  Betty  Brown  will  get  her  feet  wet,  I  think," 
said  Ben ;  "  there  she  is,  picking  her  way,  By 
putting  her  feet  in  somebody's  footsteps." 

"  Poor  old  bodv,  that  won't  save  her  from  get- 


Ben's  Petition  for  Work.  51 

ting   wet,  though,"  said   Mrs.  Paine ;   "  a  path 
\vill  get  trod  down  in  time,  that's  one  comfort." 

"  Auntie,  may  I  sweep  the  path  here  from  our 
door  to  the  garden  gate  ?  " 

"  That  you  may,  Ben  ;  it  will  be  making  your- 
self very  useful.  You  may  take  the  brush-broom 
and  work  away  after  breakfast.  I  bought  a  light 
one  the  other  day,  which  will  not  be  very  heavy 
for  you." 

"  Find  work  for  small  hands  and  feet,"  sang 
Ben,  imitating  the  bells,  as  he  ran  into  the  little 
shed,  just  outside  the  back-kitchen  door,  to  hunt 
for  the  broom. 

After  breakfast  he  began  to  sweep,  Alice 
watching  him  from  the  window.  At  first  he  was 
rather  clumsy,  and  sent  the  snow  flying  all  over 
himself;  but  by  degrees  he  improved,  and  found 
out  how  to  sweep  so  as  to  leave  a  nice  clear  space 
for  walking  in  the  middle  of  the  path,  whilst  he 
formed  a  white  ridge  of  snow  on  either  side. 

By  the  time  he  got  to  the  gate  he  was  glad  to 
rest  his  arms,  which  ached  a  good  deal  with  their 
unusual  exercise ....-^ 


62  Ben's  Boyhood. 

As  he  stood  leaning  on  the  gate-post,  he  saw 
Mrs.  Mary  Kidman  coming  past.  She  was  an 
elderly  spinster  lady,  who  lived  with  one  maid- 
servant in  a  row  of  small,  genteel-looking  houses 
not  far  off.  Ben  knew  her  because  she  some- 
times gave  an  order  for  lace  to  Mrs.  Paine  for 
friends  of  hers  who  lived  at  a  distance.  She 
went  to  morning  prayers  regularly  at  the  church 
on  Wednesdays  and  Fridays,  and  Ben  knew  she 
was  going  there  now  in  spite  of  the  snow. 

She  stopped  when  she  came  up  to  him,  and 
looked  over  the  gate  at  the  nicely-swept  path. 

"  Have  you  swept  that  yourself,  little  boy  ?  " 
said  she. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Ben,  coloring  with  pleas- 
ure at  his  work  being  noticed. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  and  clear  the  gravel 
walk  in  my  front  garden  ?  It  is  not  longer  than 
this  one,  I  think ;  I  was  going  to  ask  the  sexton 
to  send  up  his  lad  to  do  it,  but  if  you  would  like 
the  job  you  shall  have  it.  If  you  do  it  well,  and 
also  brush  the  steps  quite  clear,  I  will  give  you 
sixpence  for  your  work." 


Ren  engaged  to  sweep  Mrs.  Kidman's  pathway.  —  Paee  52. 


Ben  Engaged  by  Mrs.  Kidman  53 

"  I  will  go  directly,"  said  Ben,  seizing  his 
broom,  and  shouldering  it  with  quite  a  conse- 
quential air,  as  though  he  were  about  to  march 
forth  on  a  mission  of  great  importance. 

"I  shall  perhaps  be  back  again  before  you 
have  finished,"  said  Mrs.  Mary.  "  Knock  at  the 
back  door,  and  tell  my  servant  I  have  sent  you.'* 

She  went  away,  and  Ben  ran  into  tell  Mrs. 
Paine  of  his  good  fortune,  and  to  receive  her  per- 
mission to  go ;  and  then  he  walked  away  also, 
singing  again,  in  imitation  of  the  bells,  —  "  More 
work  for  small  hands  and  feet ! " 

Mrs.  Mary's  maid,  Susan,  was  very  glad  to  see 
his  broom,  but  looked  rather  dismayed  at  her 
mistress  having  selected  so  small  a  boy. 

"  Why,  you  are  not  so  tall  as  your  broom," 
she  said ;  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  be  able  to 
sweep  all  that  snow  away  with  those  small  arms 
and  hands." 

44  They  are  very  strong,"  said  Ben ;  "  and  Mrs. 
Mary  has  sent  me  because  she  saw  I  had  done 
our  garden  well." 


54:  J5ew'«   Boyhood. 

"  Sweep  away,  then,"  said  Susan,  glad  to  shut 
the  door  and  get  back  into  her  own  warm 
kitchen. 

Ben  did  "  sweep  away,"  and  with  such  good 
\vill  that  he  had  cleared  the  front  path,  and  the 
steps,  and  the  little  bit  in  front  of  the  entrance- 
gate,  by  the  time  Mrs.  Mary  returned.  She  was 
quite  satisfied,  and  put  sixpence  in  his  hand,  but 
said,  looking  up  at  the  sky  that  she  feared  there 
was  more  snow  coining,  and  that  it  would  soon 
have  to  be  done  again. 

As  he  was  passing  the  next  house  but  one,  he 
was  again  accosted  by  a  lady  from  her  parlor 
•window,  and  asked  if  he  would  come  and  sweep 
her  path.  He  had  to  go  to  dinner  just  then, 
but  promised  to  return  immediately  afterwards. 
Work  seemed  offering  itself  to  him  in  earnest 
now  the  snow  had  come.  He  ran  home  a  very 
happy  boy.  He  was  busy  all  the  afternoon,  and 
had  another  sixpence  given  him.  A  whole  shil- 
ling earned  in  one  day  was  very  encouraging. 
He  was  master  now  of  eighteenpence.  Mrs. 


Bens  New  Idea.  55 

Paine  told  him  she  should  like  to  have  him 
keep  it,  and  if  he  could  add  more  from  time  to 
time,  he  might  be  able  to  pay  for  half-a-year's 
schooling. 

This  was  a  new  and  delightful  idea.  Ben  had 
heard  so  much  about  learning  helping  people  on, 
that  he  thought  it  would  do  wonders  for  him. 
Jack  Benbow  had  been  to  school,  he  knew,  and 
now  he  kept  the  accounts  in  a  shop.  Jack  had 
no  relations,  except  one  who  was  worse  than 
none  —  a  very  drunken  uncle  ;  but  Jack  was  a 
good,  steady  lad,  who  often  said  a  kind  word  to 
Ben,  and  sometimes  on  Sundays  took  a  little 
walk  with  him.  Ben  thought  he  would  go  and 
call  on  him  some  day,  and  ask  his  advice  about 
getting  on  in  the  world. 

But  for  several  days  his  life  was  too  busy  for 
him  to  have  any  time  for  making  calls.  The 
weather  was  very  unsettled.  The  days  were 
fine,  but  every  night  more  or  less  snow  fell.  So 
each  morning  the  work  of  the  day  before  was 
undone ;  either  boys  were  scarce,  or  boys  were 


56  Ben's    Boyhood. 

idle,  or  boys  were  at  school,  for  there  was  a 
great  scarcity  of  them  and  brooms.*  Ben  was 
quite  in  request  amongst  the  families  living  in 
the  before-mentioned  row  of  houses.  They  were 
mostly  ladies  with  one  or  two  maid-servants ; 
and,  as  these  maids  did  not  like  sweeping  snow 
and  wetting  their  feet,  the  sight  of  a  little  boy 
and  a  broom  coming  before  their  windows  every 
day  caused  many  a  servant  to  step  and  engage 
his  services  in  her  mistress's  name. 

He  did  not,  of  course,  get  sixpence  every  time 
he  swept  the  little  gardens,  but  the  ladies  never 
gave  him  less  than  twopence  or  threepence,  even 
on  the  mornings  when  the  snow  lay  the  lightest ; 
so  that  when  a  thaw  came  at  the  end  of  a  week, 
and  Ben  and  Alice  counted  up  what  he  had  got, 
there  was  in  all  five  shillings  and  ninepence,  be- 
sides the  sixpence  the  farmer  had  given  him. 

Ben's  spirits  knew  no  bounds  that  evening. 
Mrs.  Paine  got  tired  of  saying  —  "  Hush,  hush.'* 
She  reminded  him  that  the  snow  was  a  rare  af- 
fair, and  that  it  might  be  long  before  he  could 


Ben's  Cheerfulness. 


67 


earn  any  more  shillings.  Ben  still  capered  about, 
and  whistled,  and  sang,  and  kept  up  such 
a  succession  of  merriment,  that  Mrs.  Paine  was 
not  sony  when  he  was  snug  in  bed.  But  even 
then  she  heard  him  whistling  and  singing  by 
turns  for  more  than  half-au-hour. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


JACK    BENBOW  TURNS  SCHOOLMASTER. 


BENBOW  had  just  finished  tea. 
The  respectable  woman  who  boarded  him 
had  cleared  it  away,  and  was  gone  to  see 
a  friend.  Jack  had  drawn  his  chair  to 
the  table,  and  was  deeply  engaged  in  reading  a 
magazine  by  the  light  of  a  candle,  when  a  tap  at 
the  door  made  him  look  up,  and  say,  "  Come 
in." 

He  was  surprised  to  see  Ben  enter,  but  he 
liked  the  "  little  chap,"  as  he  called  him,  and 
asked  him  to  sit  down  and  tell  him  what  he 

came  for. 
(68) 


How  Jack  got  on.  59 

"  Aunt  said  I  might  come,  Jack,  when  I  told 
her  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you." 

"  And   what  have   you  to   say,   youngster ; 
you're  not  in  any  trouble,  are  you  ?  " 

"No,  but  I  want  to  get  on  in  life,  as  people 
say  you  are  doing,  and  I  thought  that  as  you 
have  got  on,  I  might,  if  I  only  knew  how.'* 

"But  you  are  a  young  chap  to  be  thinking  of 
such  things  for  yourself ;  how  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  soon  be  nine." 

"  Well,  then,  you  are  nearly  as  old  as  I  was 
when  father  died,  and  I've  had  to  take  care 
of  myself  ever  since.  But  you've  got  such  good 
quarters  to  live  in,  and  are  just  the  same  as  if 
you  were  Mrs.  Paine's  own  lad ;  why  do  you  go 
troubling  your  head  ?  " 

"  Because  1  want  to  help  myself,  Jack. 
Auntie  Paine  is  very  poor;  she  doesn't  say  so, 
but  I  know  she  is." 

"I  see,"  said  Jack;  "you're  quite  right. 
Begin,  and  you'll  get  on.  Father  used  to  say 
to  me,  *  Depend  upon  it  Jack,  God  helps  them 
as  helps  themselves.' " 


60  Sen's   Boyhood. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  myself,  Jack  ? "  asked 
Ben. 

"  Lots  of  little  things ;  I  used  to  pick  up  a 
penny  here,  and  a  sixpence  there,  and  sometimes 
a  shilling  or  two.  There  never  was  a  week 
that  I  couldn't  get  a  little  money,  by  hook  or 
by  crook." 

"  You  went  to  school,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Yes,  as  long  as  father  could  send  me ;  and 
when  he  got  ill  and  couldn't  afford  it,  the  master 
took  me  for  nothing,  because  he  said  I  was  get- 
ing  on,  and  did  him  credit." 

"  I  want  to  go  to  school,"  said  Ben,  "  but 
Auntie  Paine  can't  afford  to  send  me.  I've  got 
five  shillings  and  sixpence  towards  it  though, 
and  when  I  have  got  a  good  deal  more  I  am  to 
go.  Aunt  says  she'd  rather  I  would  save  my 
money  for  that  than  give  it  to  her." 

"  It'll  be  best  in  the  end  for  her,  and  you  too," 
said  Jack.  '*  What  can  you  do,  Ben,  in  the 
learned  way  ;  can  you  read  and  write  ?  " 

"Yes,  but  Aunt  Paine  can't  do  sums,  so  I 
know  nothing  of  them." 


Jack's  Advice,  61 

**  Well,  I  tell  you  what,  if  you  like  to  come  to 
me  evenings  sometimes,  I'll  teach  JTOU  summing 
till  you  go  to  school.  You're  doing  just  what  I 
did,  picking  out  your  own  way,  and  your 
parents  are  dead,  like  mine."  And  poor  Jack 
brushed  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes  as 
he  said  this.  He  sometimes  felt  terribly  solitary 
in  the  world.  He  got  up  and  brought  a  slate  and 
pencil  out  of  a  box,  and  gave  Ben  a  lesson  in 
figures  on  the  spot,  and  it  was  settled  that,  if 
Mrs.  Paine  approved,  he  should  come  three  times 
a- week  to  learn. 

"  And  now,  youngster,  take  my  advice,  and 
keep  your  eyes  open  all  day  for  little  jobs. 
They'll  come  if  you  go  half-way  to  meet  them. 
Boys  don't  care  to  get  them  very  often,  or  they 
might  pick  up  lots  of  pennies." 

All  this  advice  from  a  big  boy  had  a  great  and 
lasting  effect  on  our  young  hero.  Mrs.  Paine 
was  very  glad  to  hear  about  the  arithmetic  les- 
sons. She  knew  well  that  Jack  was  a  good, 
steady,  high-principled  youth,  and  was  pleased  to 


62 


Ben  8  Boyhood. 


find  he  was  not  above  noticing  such  a  little  fel- 
low as  Ben,  to  whom  his  example  might  be  of 
inestimable  service. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  BED  CLOAK. 

EGULARLY  all  through  that  winter  Ben 
did  his   suras    with  Jack,  and  regularly 
kept   his  ears  and  eyes  open  for  some- 
thing which  might   add  another   mite  to 
his  slowly  but  steadily  increasing  little  fund. 

Sometimes  he  ran  errands  for  Mrs.  Mary  Kid- 
man and  other  of  the  families  in  Harpur  Row,  as 
it  was  called.  Sometimes  he  got  a  stray  penny 
for  fetching  milk,  or  cutting  up  sticks  and  wood 
for  his  humbler  neighbors.  But  many  weeka 
passed,  and  he  had  no  more  such  windfalls  as  in 

the  snow  time. 

(63) 


64  Sen's  Boyhood. 

With  spring  and  summer,  however,  came  bet- 
ter times  for  Ben.     Jobs  began  to  fall  in  oftener. 
The  little  gardens  in  Harpur  Row  wanted  weed- 
ing, and  the  ladies  soon  found  out  that  there  was 
no  boy  who  worked  so  steadily  as  Ben  Burton. 
He   had  sometimes   more  offers  of  employment 
than  he  could  accept.     Sixpences  and  even  shil- 
lings found  there  way  into  the  little  bag  which 
Alice   had  made  him  to   hold  his   money,  and 
before   June   arrived,  he  might  have   begun  to 
attend  school,  but  he  was  improving  so  rapidly 
under  Jack's  tutorage  that  for  the  present,  at  all 
events,  there   seemed  no  occasion  to  make  any 
change.     Jack  began  to  feel  a  pride  in  his  pupil, 
and  would  have  been  sorry  to  give  him  up  to 
other  hands.     Ben  wanted   to  pay  him  for   his 
instruction,  but  this  Jack  refused.     He  said  that 
almost  all  he  knew   had  been   taught  him   for 
nothing,  and   that  it  cost  nothing  but  a  little 
trouble  to  teach  it  to  another.     So  Ben's  earnings 
remained  untouched,  whilst  he  was  getting  to  be 
more  forward  in  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic 


Sen  and  Alice's  Present*  65 

than  most  of  the  boys  of  his  age  "who  went  to 
school  for  several  hours  a  clay ;  but  then  there 
•were  not  many  of  them  \vho  felt  so  anxious  to 
get  on,  or  who  gave  such  earnest  attention  to 
Mieir  teacher's  instruction.  Reading  to  himself 
j?as  now  a  great  delight  to  the  boy.  He  had 
4ome  books,  that  had  belonged  to  his  father, 
which,  now  he  could  read  easily,  he  devoured  at 
spare  moments,  with  great  interest  and  attention. 

And  now  came  a  very  happy  and  exciting 
thought  into  his  head,  which  brought  many  pri- 
vate consultations  with  Alice  and  Jack  Benbow. 

Mrs.  Paine  refused  to  touch  any  of  the  money 
he  had  laid  by  for  his  schooling,  though  again 
and  again  he  had  begged  her  to  use  it ;  she 
always  reminded  him  he  would  want  it  if  Jack 
got  tired  of  teaching  him.  Ben  one  day  confided 
to  his  good-natured  teacher  how  much  he  longed 
to  be  able  to  buy  Mrs.  Paine  a  new  cloak. 
Upon  which,  Jack  told  him  that  he  should  be 
very  glad  to  go  on  teaching  him  every  night  all 
through  the  summer  and  winter,  and  so  he  need 


b6  Bens  Boyhood. 

not  save  the  money  for  school.  Then  Ben 
rushed  off  to  buy  a  nice  cloak  for  Mrs.  Paine  with 
his  money  if  he  found  he  had  enough  to  do  so. 
Red  cloaks  made  of  a  warm,  soft  material  were 
very  much  sought  after  in  that  part  of  the  coun- 
try. Every  well-to-do  cottager  had  one,  and  it 
was  a  possession  rather  eagerly  desired  by  those 
who  had  none.  Alice  and  Ben  settled  that  it 
would  be  a  charming  present  for  her  mother,  and 
as  Alice  had  half-a-crown  to  add  to  Ben's  store, 
they  found  that  their  funds  would  buy  one. 
There  was  a  shop  in  the  High  street  where  there 
were  several  of  these  cloaks  constantly  hanging 
up  in  a  bright,  tempting-looking  row,  and  hither 
the  children  went  to  make  their  purchase. 

It  was  a  proud,  happy  moment  for  Ben  when 
he  carried  the  great  brown-paper  parcel  into  the 
cottage  and  laid  it  before  Mrs.  Paine  as  a  joint 
present  from  himself  and  Alice,  though  the  lat- 
ter at  once  disclaimed  all  but  a  very  small  share 
in  the  gift. 

Jack's  aid  in  the  affair  was  not  forgotten.    He 


A  present  to  Mrs.  Pierce  from  Ben  and  Alice.  —Page  i 


The  Warm  Red  Cloak.  67 

was  brought  that  evening  to  see  and  admire  the 
cloak,  and  to  be  thanked  warmly  for  his  kind- 
ness in  continuing  Ben  as  his  pupil,  and  enabling 
him  to  spend  his  money  on  so  welcome  and  use- 
ful a  present. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

EIPB  CHERRIES.      A  YOUNG  ROGUE,   AND   AN 
OLD  ACQUAINTANCE. 

r 

OT  very  far  from  Mrs.  Paine  lived  an  old 
man  by  the  name  of  John  Odell,  who  had 
a  small  cherry  orchard,  the  trees  of 
which  bore  remarkably  fine  fruit,  and  old 
John  used  to  pay  a  good  portion  of  his  rent  by 
its  sale.  He  had  a  donkey  and  panniers,  which 
carried  about  cherries  in  the  season,  and  parcels 
at  other  times ;  for  John  was  a  sort  of  carrier, 
and  might  constantly  be  seen  about  the  roads 
with  his  donkey.  One  day,  Ben,  noticing  the 

old  man  sitting  down  by  the  roadside  apparently 
(68) 


Ben'%  Kind  Offer.  69 

in  pain,  went  up  to  ask  him  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. He  found  that  in  getting  a  stick  out  of  the 
hedge  he  had  sprained  his  ankle,  and  that  he 
was  quite  unable  to  walk  a  step  without  diffi- 
culty and  suffering. 

"  You  must  mount  the  donkey,  "  said  Ben  ;  "I 
will  lift  off  the  panniers  and  watch  the  cherries 
for  you  till  you  can  send  some  one  back  with  the 
donkey  to  bring  them." 

"But  I  shall  lose  the  sale  of  my  cherries," 
said  the  poor  man  ;  "  they  will  not  keep,  and  1 
depend  on  them  for  my  summer  rent." 

"  I  will  go  and  sell  them  for  you,  if  you  will 
trust  me,  "  said  Ben  ;  "  aunt  will  let  me,  I  know, 
but  I  must  tell  her  where  I  am  gone." 

Old  John  looked  at  the  boy's  eager,  honest 
face,  and  replied,  — 

"  I'll  trust  you,  and  thank  you  too,  my  lad ; 
but  you  are  a  small  chap,  and  perhaps  big  boys 
will  try  and  rob  you  of  the  cherries." 

"I'll  stop  them  if  they  do,"  said  Ben,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  I'm  not  afraid ; "  and  he  doubled  up  his 


70  Ben's    Boyhood. 

fist  to  show  John  how  big  a  one  it  was,  but  it 
seemed  to  the  old  man  a  very  small  one  indeed. 

Just  then  a  man  and  woman  came  up  in  a  cart. 
They  knew  John  Odell,  and,  hearing  of  his  trou- 
ble, offered  to  give  him  a  ride  home,  which  offer 
was  gladly  accepted.  They  promised  to  stop  at 
Mrs.  Paine's  cottage  to  tell  her  what  had  become 
of  Ben. 

John  gave  him  a  few  instructions  as  to  the 
price  of  the  cherries,  and  the  way  to  weigh 
them,  and  then  they  each  started  off  on  their  dif- 
ferent roads. 

Ben  felt  quite  grand  when  left  alone  with  a 
real  live  donkey  to  manage,  and  two  panniers 
full  of  cherries  to  sell.  At  first  he  had  some  dif- 
ficulty in  persuading  the  animal  to  lift  up  his 
head  from  the  grass  he  was  munching  and  go  on 
his  way.  He  knew  very  well  that  Ben  was  not 
his  master,  and  was  not  disposed  to  acknowledge 
him  as  such ;  and  it  was  fully  ten  minutes  before 
he  consented  to  start  on  their  journey. 

Once  off,  however,  things  went  on  very  well. 


Ben  Successful  with  the  Cherries.          71 

They  called  at  every  house  they  came  to,  and 
almost  everywhere  sold  a  few  pounds  of  cherries, 
till  they  began  to  diminish  considerably. 

Ben  was  very  hungry  after  a  while,  and  won- 
dered what  he  should  do  for  dinner.  The  cher- 
ries looked  tempting,  but  Ben's  ideas  of  honesty 
were  of  the  highest  character.  Not  one  would 
he  have  touched  for  the  world.  At  last  he  de- 
cided on  buying  a  roll  at  a  village  shop  with 
twopence  of  the  money  he  had  taken,  because  he 
could  repay  it  from  his  own  little  store  at  home. 
He  did  a  good  business  too  at  the  same  shop,  for 
the  woman  bought  a  large  quantity  of  cherries  to 
sell  again. 

44 You  are  but  a  small  boy,"  said  she,  "but  I 
suppose  John  Odell  knows  you  to  be  a  trusty 
one  by  sending  you  with  his  cherries.  You've 
not  eaten  many,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  I've  not  eaten  one,"  said  Ben,  and  he  leJ 
away  the  donkey. 

A  boy  about  fourteen  years  of  age  was  lolling 
against  a  wall  at  that  moment,  looking  vacant 


72  Bens  Boyhood. 

and  idle.     He  came  forward,  and,  peeping  into 
the  panniers,  said  to  Ben :  — 

"  Give  me  a  handful,  }-ou'll  be  none  the 
poorer." 

*'  I  can't,  —  they  aren't  mine,"  said  Ben.  The 
boy  tried  to  get  his  hand  into  the  pannier,  but 
instantly  Ben  shut  down  the  straw  lid  on  his 
wrist,  making  him  glad  to  withdraw  it. 

"  Be  off  with  you,  Mark  Thompson,"  exclaimed 
the  Bhopwoman  ;  "  ain't  you  ashamed  of  your- 
self? If  you  want  cherries,  why  don't  you  earn 
some  money  to  buy  them  with,  instead  of  stand- 
ing about  idle  all  day  long  ?  Not  one  do  you  de- 
serve to  have  given  you,  even  if  they  were  the 
lad's  own  to  do  what  he  liked  with.*' 

Mark  muttered  something  which  Ben  did  not 
hear,  though  he  saw  how  angry  the  boy  looked, 
and  felt  glad  to  get  away  from  him. 

He  thought  it  was  time  to  turn  homewards, 
but  he  took  a  different  road  for  his  return,  as, 
although  rather  longer,  it  would  give  him  a 
chance  of  selling  his  remaining  cherries  at  one 
or  two  houses  which  were  on  his  way. 


Mark  Thompson  i  Demand.  73 

He  had  to  go  through  a  long,  narrow  lane 
about  half-an-hour  later,  and  when  he  had  reached 
the  middle  of  it  he  heard  footsteps  behind  him, 
and,  looking  round,  felt  rather  dismayed  at  see- 
ing Mark  Thompson. 

"I  say,  youngster,1'  said  he,  "I'm  not  a-going 
to  let  you  off  without  giving  me  some  cherries, 
so  fork  up  a  handful  or  two,  quietly." 

"  No,  I  won't,"  said  Ben  ;  and  he  placed  him- 
self between  Mark  and  the  pannier,  by  the  side 
of  which  he  stood. 

Mark  walked  round  the  donkey  to  the  other 
pannier.  It  was  empty  ;  so  Ben  let  him  look  in 
without  interfering ;  but  of  course  he  soon  re- 
turned to  the  one  which  Ben  was  defending  by 
placing  his  t\vo  arms  upon  it. 

"  You  don't  think  I  can't  master  you,  and  get 
the  cherries,  do  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  are  bigger  and  stronger  than  I  am,  I 
know,"  said  Ben  ;  "  but  for  all  that  I  will  keep 
you  off  as  long  as  I  can." 

Mark  came  close  to  the  brave  little  fellow,  and 


74  Ben's  Boyhood. 

pushed  him  on  one  side,  but  in  an  instant  Ben 
sprang  back  again,  and  held  down  the  lid  of  the 
pannier  firmly. 

He  had  greatly  the  advantage  of  Mark  in  agil- 
ity, and  for  some  minutes  succeeded  in  defending 
himself  and  the  fruit.  At  length  Mark  hit  him 
a  blow  over  the  face  which  made  his  nose  bleed 
and  rather  blinded  him.  Mark  saw  his  advan- 
tage, and  flung  open  the  lid  ;  but  at  that  moment 
a  tall,  powerful  man  strode  across  a  gap  in  the 
hedge,  and  seized  him  by  the  arm,  which  he 
grasped  so  tightly  that  the  boy  called  out  for 
mercy.  But  mercy  the  enemy  did  not  seem  dis- 
posed to  show  him.  A  few  questions  put  to  Ben 
explained  the  whole  affair ;  and  then  Mark  got 
such  a  flogging  with  the  big  man's  cane  as  he 
had  never  had  in  his  life  before. 

"  There,  sir,"  said  his  chastiser,  letting  him  go 
at  last,  though  not  till  he  had  blubbered  again 
and  again  an  entreaty  to  be  released,  "  perhaps 
that  will  teach  you  what  a  thief  and  a  coward 
deserves  when  he  tries  to  steal,  and  to  attack  a 


The  Farmer  Chatises  Mark.  75 

boy  younger  and  smaller  than  himself.     Be  off, 
or  I  shall  not  be  able  to  help  giving  }fou  a  few 
more  lashes ; "   and  he  looked  so  ready  to  com 
mence  afresh,  that  Mark  fairly  took  to  his  heels, 
and,  turning  a  corner,  got  out  of  sight. 

When  Ben  had  time  to  look  at  his  deliverer, 
he  felt  sure  he  had  seen  him  before  somewhere, 
though  he  could  not  remember  where  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  suddenly,  however,  he  recollected  him  as 
the  farmer  who  had  dropped  his  key  at  the  gate 
of  the  ploughed  field,  long  ago. 

"Well,  my  lad,"  said  he,  putting  his  hand 
kindly  on  Ben's  shoulder,  "  we've  given  him. 
what  he  hasn't  liked  as  well  as  cherries,  haven't 
we  ?  You  are  a  plucky  little  fellow ;  I  saw 
what  passed  from  the  other  side  of  the  hedge ; 
but  how's  this, — isn't  that  old  John  Odell's 
donkey  and  panniers  ?  " 

Ben  explained  matters,  and  as  he  did  so,  the 
farmer  began  to  remember  him  as  being  the 
same  boy  that  had  asked  him  for  work  long  ago. 

"  You  are  grown  a  good  bit,"  said  he,  "  since  I 


76  Beri»  Boyhood. 

saw  you  last.  You  seem  an  active  fellow,  and 
one  that  will  not  let  the  grass  grow  under  your 
feet.  My  house  is  close  by  ;  come  in  and  wash 
the  blood  off  your  nose,  and  get  something  to 
eat." 

It  was  a  welcome  proposition  to  Ben,  who  had 
not  found  his  roll  very  satisfying.  He  followed 
the  farmer  along  a  grass  field  to  a  substantial- 
looking  house,  with  a  pleasant  garden  in  front, 
and  farm  buildings  at  the  back. 

Mr.  Medway  was  the  farmer's  name.  He  was 
a  man  well-to-do  in  the  world,  and  highly 
respected  in  the  neighborhood. 

He  led  Ben  to  the  kitchen,  and  ordered  his 
servants  to  give  him  a  good  meal ;  and  a  wisp  of 
hay  was  brought  lor  the  donke}',  as  he  stood  at 
the  gate  trying  to  munch  some  dandelions  that 
were  forcing  their  way  between  the  stones  at 
his  feet. 

Mr.  Medway  met  Ben  afterwards  in  the  yard 
as  he  was  crossing  it  to  go  back  to  his  donkey. 
"  Well,  my  boy,  and  are  you  still  wanting  to 
find  work  to  do  ?  " 


Mr.  Medway  Offers  Ben  Work.  77 

**  Yes,  sir ;  more  than  ever." 

"Now  tell  me  all  about  yourself;  who  are 
your  parents,  and  where  do  you  live  ?  " 

Ben's  history  was  soon  told ;  and  the  farmer 
seemed  pleased  at  his  wish  to  make  himself 
independent,  and  to  cease  to  be  a  burden  on  kind 
Mrs.  Paine. 

"  If  you  were  a  year  older,  I  would  take  you 
myself,"  said  he,  "  for  I  want  a  sharp,  active  boy 
about  the  place  instead  of  one  whom  I  have  had 
to  send  off  because  he  was  idle." 

Mr.  Medway's  eye  glanced  over  Ben's  little 
person  as  he  spoke,  as  though  he  were  thinking 
whether  it  would  be  possible  that  so  young  a 
boy  might  suit  his  purpose.  Ben  intuitively  felt 
there  was  a  chance  for  him,  and  drew  himself 
up  to  his  extremest  height,  in  his  great  anxiety 
as  to  the  result  of  the  investigation  on  the 
farmer's  mind.  He  was  relieved  when  he  said, — 

"  I'll  try  you,  at  all  events ;  tell  your  aunt,  as 
you  call  her,  that  I  will  come  and  talk  to  her 
about  you  in  a  day  or  two." 


78 


Ben's  Boyhood. 


Ben  drove  the  donkey  home  to  John  Odell,  in 
a  very  happy  state  of  mind.  The  old  man  was 
pleased  and  grateful  to  him  for  his  day's  assist- 
ance ;  and,  as  Ben  resolutely  refused  to  be  paid 
for  it  in  money,  he  made  him  take  home  a  bas- 
ketful of  cherries  for  himself  and  Alice. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BEN  TAKES  A  STEP  IN  LIFE  WHICH    LEADS    TO 
PROSPERITY. 

.  MED  WAY  did  not  forget  Ben.  He 
had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  active, 
intelligent-looking  boy,  who,  though  so 
young,  was  thus  desirous  of  becoming 
independent.  He  called  on  Mrs.  Paine,  and, 
after  putting  a  few  questions  to  her  about  him, 
he  offered  to  take  him  into  his  house  to  live  for  a 
time. 

"  It  will  depend  on  yourself,  Ben,"  said  he, 
"  whether  you  remain  with  me.     It  will  only  be 

a  trial  of  you  at  first.     My  wife  laughs  at  me  for 

(79) 


80  Ben  a  Boyhood. 

thinking  of  so  young  a  chap.  She  declares  you 
will  be  more  trouble  than  help,  but  you  must 
prove  that  she  is  mistaken." 

So  to  the  farm  Ben  went  in  a  day  or  two,  and 
Dot  only  Mrs.  Medway,  but  the  people  about  the 
place,  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise,  and 
prophesied  that  he  would  be  of  little  use. 

But  before  a  week  was  over,  Mrs.  Medway 
and  others  had  altered  their  opinion,  and  declared 
that  he  was  worth  twenty  of  his  predecessor, 
though  he  was  two  years  younger.  Ben's  duties 
were  multifarious.  Sometimes  they  lay  in  the 
house,  sometimes  in  the  farmyard.  One  moment 
he  was  shouted  for  in  one  direction,  the  next  in 
another.  Now  he  was  to  run  off  to  Bedford  on 
a  message,  and  as  soon  as  he  returned  he  was 
wanted  to  fly  to  the  hen-roost  for  eggs.  Up  and 
down,  in  and  out,  at  every  one's  beck  and  call, 
was  Ben,  from  morning  till  night. 

But  no  one  ever  saw  him  out  of  temper,  or 
unwilling  to  do  what  he  was  told ;  everything 
seemed  to  be  a  pleasure  to  him ;  till  at  length 


Ben  Universally  Popular.  81 

even  Sally  the  dairy-maid,  who  had  looked  at 
him  almost  with  contempt  when  he  arrived,  and 
said  master  had  brought  a  baby  to  the  farm, 
declared  that  "  he  was  the  most  useful,  obliging- 
est  little  fellow  she  had  ever  seen,  and  she  should 
be  very  sorry  to  see  him  go  away." 

But  neither  the  farmer  nor  his  wife  had  any 
intention  of  sending  him  away.  Ben  was 
deservedly  growing  in  their  favor,  and  was  un- 
consciously making  for  himself  friends. 

Although  he  slept  at  the  farm  he  was  able 
often  to  see  Mrs.  Paine  and  Alice,  and  his  Sun- 
days were  generally  spent  with  them. 

Time  passed  on,  and  still  Ben  lived  with  Mr. 
Medway,  becoming  every  year  a  more  valued 
and  trusty  assistant  to  him,  till  at  length  he  was 
established  as  his  head  man,  and,  next  to  himself, 
the  chief  director  and  manager  of  everything. 

There  were  some  who  wondered  at  the  farm- 
er for  putting  so  much  trust  in  so  young  a  man, 
but  his  reply  was  always  the  same  when  ques- 
tioned on  the  subject :  — 


82  Sens  Boyhood. 

"  I  trust  him  because  I  know  he  deserves  trust. 
Ben  never  drinks,  never  smokes,  or  does  any- 
thing e"  3  which  might  interfere  with  his  steady 
active  6  ities  to  me  as  his  master.  His  heart  ia 
in  his  work,  and  self-indulgence  is  no  part  of  hia 
character.  Surely  then  I  am  safer  with  a  young 
foreman  such  as  this,  than  with  an  older  onej 
whose  ways  I  could  not  so  thoroughly  approve 
of." 

Mr.  Medway  is  growing  old  and  less  active  than 
formerly,  but  there  is  occasion  for  him  to  exert 
himself  more  than  he  likes.  He  knows  that  Ben 
is  as  little  sparing  of  his  hands  and  feet  now  as 
he  was  when  a  little  boy.  He  and  his  wife  have 
no  children  of  their  own,  and  Ben  has  become  to 
them  like  their  own  son. 

Before  we  conclude  our  tale,  we  will  ask  our 
readers  to  look  for  an  instant  on  a  sketch,  the 
scene  of  which  lies  in  the  vicinity  of  Mr.  Med- 
way's  house.  Almost  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
the  farm  has  arisen,  during  the  last  few  years,  a 
pleasant-looking,  comfortable  cottage,  which  con- 


Ben's  Pleasant  Home.  83 

reys  to  the  mind  of  the  passer-by  the  idea  of  a 
thoroughly  bright  and  well-ordered  abode.  Its 
gable  front  is  covered  with  roses,  which  now  in 
the  summer-time  scent  the  air  with  the  fragrance 
of  their  abundant  flowers. 

In  the  garden  which  surrounds  the  house 
stand  several  hives  of  bees,  the  little  inmates  of 
which  have  not  far  to  go  in  search  of  the  precious 
nectar  with  which  they  make  their  honey,  for 
the  front  of  the  garden  and  all  around  the  part 
where  the  hives  stand  is  one  blaze  of  bright, 
richly-perfumed  flowers. 

Amongst  them  plays  a  little  girl,  who  is  so 
like  the  Alice  of  whom  we  have  written,  that 
one  could  almost  fancy  time  has  for  once  stood 
still,  and  left  untouched  the  child  who  welcomed 
so  warmly  to  her  early  home  tho  orphaned  and 
then  destitute  Ben. 

But  another  figure  stands  at  the  door  of  the 
cottage,  and  calls  to  the  little  one  in  the  garden 
to  come  in,  for  her  father  is  ready  for  his  tea. 
In  the  slight  figure  and  still  blooming  face  we 


84  Ben's  Boyhood. 

can  recognize  the  former  Alice,  who  has  become 
the  wife  of  her  old  playfellow  and  the  mother  of 
the  little  Alice  whose  feet  run  homewards  on 
hearing  her  voice.  Mr.  Medway  built  this  cot- 
tage for  his  faithful  servant  on  his  marriage,  that 
he  might  have  him  always  within  call.  Indeed 
so  necessary  is  he  to  him,  that  many  think  he 
will  soon  make  him  partner  instead  of  foreman. 

Mrs.  Paine  is  dead.  Her  last  days  were  made 
comfortable  and  easy  by  her  adopted  son,  and 
she  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  Alice  become  his 
wife  whilst  she  was  alive. 

There  is  one  visitor  who  often  comes  to  Ben's 
pleasant  abode,  and  plays  with  the  young  ones, 
with  whom  he  is  a  great  favorite.  It  is  worthy 
Jack  Benbow  —  Ben's  old  tutor.  He  is  still  un- 
married, though  Ben  often  urges  him  to  follow 
his  example. 

The  church  bells  still  ring  their  silvery  chimes, 
and  still  advise  all  little  boys  to  begin  and  find 
work  for  small  hands  and  feet.  But  as  all  little 
boys  cannot  hear  what  they  say,  we  will  beg 


A  Useful  Maxim.  85 

them  to  believe  that  the  instruction  they  give  is 
wise  and  good.     Let  little  hands  and  feet  find 
ways   of  being  useful   and  active  as  Ben's   did 
when  young,  for  children  as  well  as  older  peoplo 
may  be  sure  that  idleness  brings  discontent  and 
sorrow,  and  industry  leads  to  content  and  happi 
ness.     Let  us  also  remember  the  command  of  St 
Paul  to   the   Thessalonians :  —  "If  any   would 
not  work,  neither  should  he  eat." 


TRUSTED  AND  TRIED. 


CHAPTER  I. 

bj  BOUT  fifty  miles  out  of  Paris  stood  a 
beautiful  country  house,  where  M.  Les- 
salles  was  accustomed  to  spend  the  sum- 
mer with  his  family.  It  was  a  delight- 
ful spot,  not  indeed  for  the  lovers  of  the  pictur- 
esque or  grand  in  nature,  but  for  those  who 
sought  perfect  quiet  and  pure  country  air.  The 
view  from  the  terrace  of  the  mansion  presented 
no  striking  features,  and  might  even  have  seemed 
to  some  monotonous  and  dull.  The  land  was 
very  slightly  undulated,  and  no  hills  worthy  of 

the  name  broke  in  any  direction  the  broad  hori- 

(86) 


Trusted  and  Tried.  87 

ron  line  of  sky.  A  background  of  woods,  and  in 
the  foreground  a  river,  the  windings  of  which 
threaded  the  meadows  like  a  silver  ribbon, — 
now  hidden  behind  a  clump  of  trees  or  between 
deepened  banks,  now  reappearing,  sparkling  in 
the  sunshine,  —  these  were  the  chief  features 
that  made  the  landscape  pleasant  to  the  eye. 
Here  and  there  the  tower  of  a  village  church 
rose  above  the  orchards,  and  herds  of  cattle  were 
seen  grazing  contentedly  in  the  broad  meadows. 
On  the  one  side  of  the  setting  sun  stood  one  sol- 
itary gigantic  poplar,  which  commanded  the 
whole  country  round,  and  towards  evening  cast 
far  afield  its  great  shadow,  broken  by  the  hedges 
and  inequalities  of  the  ground.  When  the  sky 
was  black  with  clouds,  and  the  branches  of  the 
other  trees  were  swayed  and  bent  hither  and 
thither  by  the  storm  wind,  the  poplar  stood  erect 
and  unmoved.  Once  or  twice  it  had  been  seen 
to  bow  and  writhe  in  the  tempest,  but  then  it 
seemed  as  if  it  must  be  torn  up  by  the  roots,  so 
stern  was  its  resistance.  This  great  tree  sug- 


88  Trusted  and  Tried. 

gested  many  curious  questions  and  comparisons. 
What  was  it  for  ?  What  was  it  like  ?  Did  it 
represent  the  wise  man  or  the  proud  man?  There 
it  stood,  solitary,  useless,  not  even  giving  in  its 
branches  a  shelter  to  the  birds'-nests.  At  a  lit- 
tle distance  from  it,  the  apple-tree  at  the  edge 
of  the  road  cast  its  shadow  over  the  heads  of  the 
passers-by  and  its  fruit  at  their  feet.  Which 
was  best  fulfilling  its  mission  as  a  tree,  the  hum- 
ble apple-tree  or  the  proud  poplar  ? 

At  the  moment  when  we  imagine  ourselves  to 
be  peeping  into  M.  Lassalles'  park,  the  poplar 
was  absorbing  all  the  attention  of  one  of  the  fam- 
ily, whose  acquaintance  shall  be  the  first  we 
make.  He  is  a  little  boy,  scarcely  nine  years  of 
age,  with  a  thin,  pale,  sickly  face,  and  large 
thoughtful  eyes.  At  a  little  distance  from  the 
house,  under  the  shade  of  a  great  lime-tree,  he  is 
tying,  not  on  the  mossy  sward,  —  tjbat  is  a  forbid- 
den luxury,  —  but  on  cushions  which  are  brought 
for  him  every  day  to  this  his  favorite  place.  He 
is  alone,  but  surrounded  with  his  books,  one  of 


Trusted  and  Tried.  89 

which  lies  open  on  his  knee,  while  the  rest,  scat- 
tered about  the  grass,  seem  to  have  been  rejected 
one  after  another.  He  is  not  reading,  but  look- 
ing up  steadily  and  long  at  the  great  poplar-tree. 
What  is  he  thinking  of  or  dreaming  about  ?  He 
would  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  himself.  He 
is  watching  a  little  shrub,  hardly  visible  from 
our  distance,  which  grows  close  against  the  great 
trunk  of  the  tall  poplar.  He  is  following  with 
his  eyes  the  long  shadow  of  the  tree,  as  it  creeps 
round  slowly  with  the  sun,  and  is  just  about  to 
swallow  up  the  humble  little  shrub.  How  it  has 
crept  on  again,  the  shrub  reappears,  and  the 
shadow  stretches  out  longer  and  longer  over  the 
meadow  grass.  Richard  turns  away  his  eyes  at 
length,  and  takes  up  his  book  once  more,  but  you 
see  he  is  not  reading.  The  shadow  which  has 
left  the  bush  seems  to  have  come  and  settled  on 
his  face. 

To  look  at  this  child,  you  would  say  he  was  a 
poor  blanched  plant  that  had  grown  up  without 
any  sun  upon  it.  The  sunshine  to  his  life  would 


90  Trusted  and  Tried. 

have  been  his  mother's  love,  but  a  mother's  love 
he  had  never  known.  She  had  died  when  he 
was  born,  and  with  all  he  had  beside  to  make 
him  happy,  there  had  always  seemed  something 
wanting,  a  blank  which  nothing  could  fill. 

He  had  always  been  a  delicate  child,  so  deli- 
cate that  it  was  only  by  great  and  constant  care 
he  had  struggled  through  the  troubles  of  infancy. 
He  had  never,  indeed,  known  more  than  half  the 
life  of  other  children.  The  merry  games,  the 
wild  adventures,  the  overflowing  fun,  the  regular 
studies  which  healthy  boys  and  girls  enjoy,  had 
always  been  beyond  his  strength.  If  he  had  had 
a  mother's  tender,  caressing  love  at  home,  he 
might  have  been  happy  enough  without  all  these 
things,  but  this  had  been  denied  him  too. 

Richard  was  not  altogether  alone,  however. 
He  had  a  father  who  loved  him  dearly,  and  a 
brother  and  sister  both  older  than  himself.  But 
his  father  was  much  occupied,  and  could  rarely 
spend  much  time  with  him.  His  brother  went 
to  school,  and  when  he  was  at  home,  his  rude, 


Trusted  and  Tried.  91 

boisterous  ways  made  Richard  more  afraid  of  him 
than  glad  tc  have  his  company.  Then  his  sister, 
though  she  was  a  kind-hearted  girl,  was  brought 
up  by  a  model  governess,  who  allowed  her  very 
little  leisure  or  liberty,  but  kept  her  very  close 
to  "her  duties,"  as  she  called  them.  She  had 
never  any  time  to  spare  from  her  books  and  her 
piano  to  devote  to  her  poor  little  sick  brother,  or 
to  the  ignorant  children  of  the  village,  to  whom 
a  few  crumbs  of  the  knowledge  with  which 
Juliet  was  crammed  would  have  been  so  useful. 
She  had  not  even  time  to  attend  to  the  flowers 
in  her  own  garden,  and  scarcely  stopped  to 
admire  them. 

Just  as  we  are  looking  on,  however,  she  came 
tripping  up  behind  her  brother,  and  said,  — 

"  Oh,  how  nice  for  you  to  be  always  out  here 
in  the  open  air,  Richard  !  I  only  wish  I  was  in 
your  place." 

"  Well,  stay  with  me  then.  Sit  down  here  by 
me  on  the  cushion,"  said  Richard,  making  room 
for  his  sister,  and  holding  her  by  the  dress. 


92  Trusted  and  Tried. 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  it  so  much,  but  you  s«?e  1 
haven't  a  moment  to  lose.  It  is  just  going  to 
strike  four,  and  exactly  at  four  I  must  sit  down 
to  the  piano.  Mademoiselle  Leblois  is  very 
strict.  Every  hour  of  practising  must  be  full 
sixty  minutes  long,  and  four  hours  of  that  a  day 
is  enough  to  make  a  playing  machine  of  me." 

"Do  you  think  there  will  be  pianos  in  heaven?  " 
asked  Richard,  looking  dreamily  up  into  the  sky 
again. 

"  I  really  know  nothing  about  that,"  said 
Juliet,  laughing.  "  What  an  absurd  idea,  Rich- 
ard !  What  makes  you  think  of  such  things  ? 
I  never  should." 

"  I  often  think  about  heaven.  I  don't  believe 
it's  so  far  off  as  we  fancy.  Sometimes  I  feel  as 
if  living  here  is  only  like  a  dream,  and  I  wish  I 
could  wake  up." 

"  You  have  very  odd  ideas  of  another  world. 
If  you  had  as  much  to  do  as  I  have,  you  would 
know  life  is  something  more  than  a  dream.  But 
there's  the  church  clock  striking.  I  must  rush 
into  the  school-room." 


Trusted  and  Tried.  93 

"  Come  back  when  you  have  done.'* 

*'  Oh,  yes,  I  dare  say ;  and  what  about  my 
lessons  for  to-morrow,  then  ? " 

44  Well,  well,  go  away  then,"  said  Richard,  a 
little  pettishly  ;  "you  never  can  stay  with  me.*' 

Juliet  ran  off,  and  the  great  poplar  went  on 
lengthening  its  shadow  over  the  field.  Richard 
had  fallen  back  into  his  waking  dream,  which 
nobody  seemed  able  to  understand.  He  looked 
at  the  tiny,  feeble  shrub,  and  felt  a  sort  of 
sorrowful  pity  for  it,  such  as  children  do  feel 
sometimes  for  things  without  life ;  though  he 
scarcely  knew  it,  he  was  really  thinking  of  the 
shrub  as  if  it  were  part  of  himself. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HILE  Richard  was  lying  on  the  terrace, 
M.  Lassalles  was  busy  in  his  kitchen- 
garden  and  forcing-house;  not  that  he 
prided  himself  very  much  on  the  rare 
fruits  and  vegetables  he  could  grow,  but  that  he 
found  gardening  the  best  refreshment  when  his 
mind  was  jaded  with  the  cares  of  business  and 
of  home.  His  family  gave  him  much  anxiety. 
He  saw  Robert,  his  eldest  son,  growing  up  idle, 
selfish,  insubordinate  ;  Juliet,  so  absorbed  in  her 
studies,  that  she  forgot  everything  beside  ;  and 
Richard,  the  most  gifted  of  his  children  in  heart 
and  mind,  sickly,  melancholy,  and  reserved.  He 
scarcely  knew  what  means  to  use  to  change  all 

this,  and  he  found  the  best  diversion  to  his  over- 
(94) 


Trusted  and  Tried.  95 

burdened  mind  in  his  garden.  There,  at  least, 
was  a  remedy  for  what  was  wrong ;  if  a  stubborn, 
branch  refused  to  yield  and  be  trained  in  the 
required  direction,  the  gardener  was  at  hand 
with  the  pruning-knife  to  cut  it  off.  Anselm, 
the  gardener,  took  a  great  pride  and  delight  in 
his  work,  and  M.  Lassalles  used  to  like  to  watch 
his  untiring  industry  and  skill  in  transplanting, 
grafting,  pruning,  training.  The  kitchen-garden 
lay  outside  the  park,  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
house,  on  a  gentle  slope  with,  a  southern  aspect, 
very  favorable  for  the  ripening  of  the  fruit.  Ifc 
was  enclosed  with  a  high  wall,  and  entered  on 
one  side  by  a  large  iron  gate,  opposite  that  which 
led  to  the  house,  and  on  the  other  by  another 
little  iron  gate  let  into  the  wall,  which  was 
always  kept  locked,  because  it  was  only  divided 
by  a  ditch  and  a  little  strip  of  grass  from  the 
main  road.  The  gardener  always  carried  the 
key  of  this  entrance  in  his  pocket,  and  only  used 
it  when  he  wanted  to  go  a  shorter  way  into  the 
village.  No  one  else  was  allowed  to  come  in 


96  Trusted  and  Tried. 

that  way  at  all.  Indeed,  Anselm  kept  guard 
over  his  garden  better  than  the  dragon  in  the 
fable  protected  the  garden  of  the  Hesperides. 
His  little  house  stood  close  by,  and  no  one,  not 
even  his  master,  could  enter  the  garden  without 
Anselm's  consent.  He  had  no  objection  to  allow 
adult  visitors  of  respectability  to  come  and  ad- 
mire his  fruits  and  vegetables ;  but  he  had  an 
insurmountable  aversion  to  children,  and  an 
unbounded  horror  of  the  depredations,  rapine, 
and  misdemeanors  of  aU  sorts  of  which  he  held 
them  capable.  Indeed,  he  had  proved  to  his  cost 
that  Robert  never  entered  the  garden  without 
leaving  traces  of  his  presence  in  some  damage 
done ;  and  it  was  probably  his  fault  that  Anselm 
had  come  to  regard  the  admission  of  a  party  of 
schoolboys  into  a  well-kept  garden  as  the  most 
ruinous  of  invasions. 

"What  is  that  I  see  yonder,  Anselm?"  asked 
M.  Lassalles,  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  little 
open  gate  in  the  garden  wall.  "  Is  it  a  child  ?  " 

Anselm  turned  sharply  round  in  the  direction 
pointed  out,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


Trusted  and  Tried.  97 

'*  Aye,  that  it  is,  sir,  —  the  little  vagabond  I 
But  I'll  make  him  take  to  his  heels.  I  want  no 
boys  about  here." 

"  Well,  but  what  harm  is  he  doing  you  ?  He 
can't  possibly  get  in,  and  I  won't  have  you  throw 
that  stone  at  him,"  said  M.  Lassalles,  seeing  that 
Anselm  had  stooped  to  pick  up  a  stone  to  aim  at 
the  boy's  head.  "  He  can't  do  any  mischief  by 
resting  a  little  on  the  grass  outside  the  gate." 

As  he  spoke,  M.  Lassalles  went  softly  towards 
the  gate,  to  observe  the  little  fellow  more  closely 
without  being  himself  perceived.  The  boy  was 
eating  a  piece  of  bread,  which,  from  the  trouble 
it  gave  him  to  bite,  seemed  very  hard ;  and,  to 
give  a  little  flavor  to  the  dry  morsel,  he  was  at 
the  same  time  crunching  some  very  small  sour 
apples,  which  he  picked  up  from  the  grass  be- 
side him.  He  had  seated  himself  with  his  back 
to  the  road,  and  his  legs  hanging  over  the  ditch ; 
and,  from  the  direction  of  his  head,  M.  Lassalles 
could  see  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  fine  pear-tree 
planted  at  the  corner  of  the  garden,  and  which 
1 


98  Trusted  and  Tried. 

stretphed  its  laden  boughs  over  the  wall,  as  if  to 
invite  the  passer-by  to  pick  the  scented  fruit. 
Certain  that  the  boy  had  not  yet  seen  him, 
M,  Lassalles  stepped  a  little  back,  so  that  he 
might  watch  unobserved  what  would  follow. 
He  never  doubted  that  the  child  would  yield 
to  the  temptation,  and  only  wondered  he  had 
stopped  so  long  to  think  about  it.  He  was  sur- 
prised, therefore,  to  see  him  presently  move  his 
position  a  little  so  as  to  reach  a  few  more  of  the 
tmripe  apples,  and  go  on  eating  them  as  he  had 
done  the  others,  not  without  a  little  twitching 
of  the  face  at  their  sharpness.  Then  M.  Las- 
salles got  from  Anselm  the  key  of  the  little  gate, 
and  opening  it  quiekl}7,  stood  beside  the  boy, 
who  had  half  turned  his  back  to  the  garden,  and 
was  still  diligently  munching  away.  He  seemed 
neither  frightened  nor  surprised,  and  this  made 
M.  Lassalles  still  more  sure  of  his  honesty  of 
purpose ;  he  got  up  as  he  saw  the  gentleman, 
and  bowed  politely. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there,  my  lad  ?  "  asked 
M.  Lassalles. 


Trusted  and  Tried.  99 

"  I  was  stopping  a  little  while  to  rest  and  eat 
my  bread,"  answered  the  boy,  net  at  all  con- 
fused. 

"  Should  not  you  have  liked  something  better 
to  eat  than  dry  bread  and  green  apples  ?  Why 
did  not  you  pick  one  or  two  of  those  fine  pears 
you  saw  hanging  there  ?  " 

"  Because  they  were  not  mine." 

"  But  if  they  were  given  you,  would  you  eat 
them?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  come  with  me.  and  I  will  give 
you  your  pockets  full." 

Anselm  stood  in  consternation  as  he  saw  M. 
Lassalles  bring  the  little  vagabond  into  the  gar- 
den, and  actually  pick  him  a  pocketful  of  the 
finest  pears;  and  then,  instead  of  sending  him 
off  again,  stand  and  talk  to  him. 

"  Your  feet  are  all  cut  and  bleeding,  my 
child,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  the  bare  feet  »* 
"  where  have  you  come  from  ?  " 

"From  Sordy,  sir." 


100  Trusted  and  Tried. 

"  From  Sordy  ?  "  repeated  M.  Lassalles,  who 
had  never  heard  the  name ;  "  where  is  that  ? 
is  it  far  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  have  been  walking  as  far  as  I 
could  every  day  for  ten  days,  and  I  want  to  get 
to  Paris  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow  !  —  why,  it's  more 
than  forty  miles  from  here." 

"  I  can  go  a  little  further  to-night,  sir." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  in  Paris?" 

"  An  aunt  of  my  mother's  lives  there,  and  I 
am  going  to  find  her." 

"  And  where  is  your  mother  I  " 

"  She  died,  sir,  a  month  ago,"  replied  the 
child,  in  a  low  voice,  and  looking  down  as  he 
spoke  at  a  little  bit  of  brown,  crumpled  crape, 
which  was  tied  round  the  cap  he  held  in  his 
hand. 

"  And  have  you  no  other  relations  ?  " 

"  None,  but  this  aunt,  sir." 

"And  that  "nadp  you  think  of  going  to  Paris, 
I  suppose  ?  " 


Trusted  and  Tried.  101 

'*  My  mother,  before  she  died,  told  me  to  go. 
She  thought  my  aunt  would  take  care  of  me  for 
her  sake,  and  that  I  might  be  of  some  use  to  her 
when  I  had  learned  a  trade." 

"  And  do  you  know  your  aunt's  name  and 
address  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  bringing  out  of  his 
pocket  an  old  well-worn  pocket-book.  From 
this  he  took  a  letter,  the  address  of  which  was 
almost  illegible,  so  feeble  and  trembling  had  been 
the  hand  which  wrote  it.  M.  Lassalles  made  it 
out  with  difficulty. 

"  My  boy,"  he  said  after  a  time,  "  you  will 
certainly  never  find  your  aunt  by  this  address ; 
this  is  one  of  the  streets  which  Lave  been  pulled 
down.  How  long  is  it  since  you  heard  from 
your  aunt?" 

"  Five  or  six  years,  or  more  than  that,  sir,  I 
think." 

"But  she  may  have  died  in  that  time,  or 
moved  half-a-dozen  times  over." 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  find  out  where  she  is  gone," 
said  the  boy. 


102  Trusted  and  Tried. 

"  Do  you  think  Paris  is  like  your  village,  then, 
\vhere  everybody  knows  everybody?  Paris  is 
an  immense  place,  my  lad,  and  any  one  moving 
from  one  part  to  another,  is  lost  sight  of  directly. 
Come  up  with  me  to  the  house,  and  we  will  see 
if  we  can  get  any  more  light  on  this  matter.  If 
we  can,  you  shall  go  on  to  Paris.  What  have 
you  in  that  parcel  so  carefully  tied  up  ?  " 

"  A  shirt,  a  pair  of  trousers,  my  books,  and 
my  shoes,  sir." 

"Shoes,  eh!  Why  don't  yon  carry  them  on 
your  feet,  instead  of  in  your  hand  ?  " 

"  My  mother  taught  me  never  to  put  them  on 
to  walk  in." 

M.  Lassalles   smiled. 

"And  your  books,  where  did  you  get  them 
from  ?  From  the  village-school,  I  suppose. 
Were  they  your  prizes,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  No,  sir;  I  never  went  to  school.  My  mother 
taught  me  all  I  know." 

"  And  what  do  you  know  ? " 

"I  can  read  and  write  a  little." 


Trusted  and  Tried.  103 

M.  Lassalles  now  became  quite  silent,  and 
walked  on,  just  as  if  he  had  no  companion  by 
his  side,  till  he  entered  the  park,  followed  by  his 
little  protege.  Going  up  to  a  door,  which  led  to 
the  kitchen-offices,  he  led  the  boy  into  a  room 
in  which  the  servants  took  their  meals,  gave 
orders  that  some  bread  and  meat  should  be  given 
him,  and  that  a  bed  should  be  got  ready  for  him, 
and  then  went  away  again.  The  first  thing  the 
little  fellow  did  when  he  found  himself  alone 
was  to  go  to  the  window,  that  he  might  gaze  in 
wondering  admiration  at  the  great  trees  in  the 
park,  the  bright  velvet  turf,  and  dazzling  beds 
of  flowers.  As  he  was  looking  all  around  him 
he  descried  Richard  on  the  grass  under  the  lime- 
tree,  and  wondered  to  himself  what  the  poor, 
pale,  motionless  lioy,  surrounded  by  his  books, 
could  be  doing.  Richard  happened  at  this  mo- 
ment to  look^  up  to  the  window  of  the  servants' 
hall;" he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  astonished 
to  see  a  strange  face  there,  and  the  eyes  of  the 
two  children  met.  Richard  beckoned  with  hia 


104  Trusted  and  Tried. 

finger,  and  the  young  stranger  replied  to  the  sign 
at  once  by  leaping  over  the  low  window- sill  onto 
the  grass,  with  so  much  agility  that  he  did  not 
even  touch  the  flowers  and  shrubs  growing  in 
the  border  underneath  the  wall.  In  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye  he  was  by  Richard's  side,  who,  far 
from  seeming  alarmed  at  such  a  strange  intro- 
duction, looked  at  the  boy  with  pleased  surprise. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  asked,  as  soon  as  they 
were  side  by  side. 

"  My  name  is  James  Valmy.    What  is  yours?" 

"  I  am  Richard  Lassalles.  But  how  did  you 
get  into  the  house  ?  " 

"  A  gentleman  took  me  in,  —  a  very  tall  gen- 
tleman, with  gray  hair.  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

44  That  must  be  papa.  Where  did  you  meet 
him  ?  " 

James  told  the  whole  story, — how  he  had 
been  stopping  to  rest  and  refresh  himself  by  the 
garden-gate,  and  what  had  followed. 

"  It  must  have  been  papa,"  repeated  Richard. 
"But  do  you  like  sour  apples?" 


Trusted  and  Tried.  105 

44  No ;  but  they  are  better  than  nothing." 

"  Better  than  nothing  ?  Have  you  no  money 
then  ?  " 

*'  Oh  yes,  to  be  sure  I  have ;  but  I  was  keep- 
ing that  till  I  got  to  Paris,  so  as  not  to  be  too 
burdensome  to  my  aunt,  if  she  is  poor.  You  can 
always  find  kind  people  by  the  way,  who  will 
give  you  a  crust  of  bread,  and  often  let  you 
sleep  in  their  barn  beside." 

As  he  said  this  the  boy  showed  Richard  two 
two-franc  pieces  which  he  had  carefully,  wrapped 
up  in  paper,  and  some  loose  coppers  which  he 
had  in  his  pocket.  Richard,  who  had  more  gold 
pieces  than  that  in  his  purse,  did  not  seem  to 
think  very  much  of  such  treasures. 

"  Have  you  come  far  ?  "  he  asked. 

44  From  Sordy.  I  dare  say  you  have  never 
been  there,  but  it  is  quite  a  large  village.'* 

"  As  if  I  could  know  all  the  villages  in  France  I 
But  what  Department  is  it  in  ?  " 

"In  Vienue." 

44  Why,  that  is  a  long  way  off." 


106  Trusted  and  Tried. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  walking  ten  or  twelve  hours 
a  day  for  several  days.  Sometimes  I  missed  my 
way,  and  then  I  had  to  turn  back ;  at  other 
times  I  was  so  tired  that  I  was  obliged  to  lie 
down  by  the  roadside  and  sleep  awhile,  before 
I  could  go  on." 

Richard,  who  had  been  greatly  interested  in 
the  story  of  his  new  companion,  now  looked 
down  at  his  feet,  and  saw  they  were  all  dusty 
and  bleeding.  He  noticed,  too,  how  brown  his 
face  looked,  and  what  old  clothes  he  had  on,  and 
then  said,  with  a  deep  si^h, — 

"  You  are  a  happy  boy  !  " 

"  Ah,  no,"  said  James,  "  not  since  I  lost  my 
dear  mother." 

"  Have  you  lost  your  mother  ?  So  have  I," 
said  Richard.  "  And  you  see  I  cannot  walk  ;  I 
can  hardly  take  a  step  by  myself." 

"  Oh,  dear,  what  a  pity  ! "  exclaimed  James, 
looking  at  him  in  sorrowful  wonder. 

"  No,"  Richard  said  again  ;  "  I  can't  even  get 
from  here  to  the  house  without  help." 


Trusted  and  Tried.  107 

"  Oh,  I  am  sorry ! "  said  James,  who  could 
scarcely  find  words  to  express  the  pity  he  felt. 
"  But  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  he  went 
on,  seeing  Richard  was  trembling  from  head  to 
foot :  you  look  as  if  you  had  the  shivers.*' 

"  I  am  so  cold.  I  should  like  to  go  in,  but 
there  is  no  one  to  carry  me.  Papa  is  in  the  gar- 
den, and  Louis  is  gone  out ;  and  they  are  the 
only  ones  who  know  how  to  lift  me." 

"  I  wish  I  could.  Will  you  let  me  try  ?  I 
am  very  strong." 

"  Yes,  if  you  like ;  but  you  must  take  care. 
If  you  touch  my  back  you  will  hurt  me  dread- 
fully." 

James,  though  he  was  tall  and  slight  as  a  reed, 
was  very  strong  in  the  arms.  He  stooped  down, 
and  raised  the  poor  boy  so  gently  that  Richard 
felt  perfectly  safe  as  he  clung  round  the  neck 
of  his  new  bearer. 

"  Go  in  by  the  middle  door,"  he  said,  as  they 
came  in  front  of  the  house. 

James   walked   in  the  direction    pointed  out, 


108  Trusted  and  Tried. 

ascended  some  stairs  at  Richard's  direction,  till 
he  found  himself  at  the  door  of  an  elegantly 
furnished  dining-room.  No  one  was  there,  and 
Richard  said,  "  Put  me  down  on  that  couch  in 
front  of  the  French  window." 

James  had  just  carefully  laid  down  his  burden 
when  a  side  door  in  the  room  opened,  and  a 
youth  about  his  own  height,  with  a  quantity  of 
very  curly  black  hair,  and  an  unamiable  expres- 
sion of  countenance,  entered,  carrying  a  horse- 
whip in  his  hand. 

"  Hallo  !  "  he  exclaimed,  stopping  short  in  the 
doorway,  "  what  is  this  young  beggar  doing 
here?  How  dare  you  come  into  the  house?" 

"  Robert,"  cried  Richard,  in  terror  of  his 
brother's  temper,  "  pray  don't  speak  to  him  so. 
He  only  came  to  carry  me  in.  Papa  brought 
him  to  the  house.  You  ought  not  to  insult  him." 

His  pleading  was  vain,  however.  Robert,  see- 
ing that  the  boy  did  not  move,  and  seemed  in  no 
way  intimidated  by  his  presence,  went  up  to  him 
and  struck  him  a  blow  right  across  the  face  with 
the  horsewhip. 


Trusted  and  Tried.  109 

"  Oh,  Robert !  you  wicked,  wicked  boy  I n 
cried  Richard,  with  a  burst  of  tears. 

At  the  same  instant  James  stretched  out  one 
of  his  strong  arms,  and  with  scarcely  an  effort 
snatched  the  horsewhip  out  of  Robert's  hand. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  strike  me,"  he  said ; 
"  I  have  done  nothing  wrong,  but  I  will  not  stay 
here  another  minute." 

So  saying,  he  threw  the  horsewhip  far  out  of 
the  window,  and  before  Robert  had  recovered 
from  his  surprise,  he  had  run  out  of  the  house, 
and  was  hurrying  towards  the  park-gate. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ICHARD'S  eyes  followed  his  new  friend 
with  a  look  of  consternation.  He  could 
not  call  him  back, —  he  could  not  go  after 
him.  What  should  he  do  ?  His  trouble 
at  the  loss  of  his  little  friend  made  him  forget 
his  anger,  and  he  turned  imploringly  to  Robert. 
'*  Oh,  Robert !  do  pray  run  after  him,  and  tell 
him  you  are  sorry,  and  bring  him  back!  He 
must  not  go  away  so." 

"  Say  « I  am  sorry  '  to  such  a  fellow  as  that !  " 
exclaimed  Robert,  in  a  mocking  tone.  "  A  likely 
thing  indeed !  If  ever  I  meet  him  again  I  will 
let  him  know  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  give  him  a  kick 
to  make  him  run  a  little  faster.  I  owe  him  that, 
—  more's  the  pity."  (110) 


Trusted  and  Tried.  Ill 

•'  How  dare  you  say  so  ?  "  said  Richard  indig- 
nantly. 

"  How  dare  I  ?  What  do  you  take  me  for^ 
you  babyish  boy  ?  " 

"  You  insulted  him,  and  hit  him ;  but  he 
threw  your  whip  out  of  the  window.  He  had 
all  the  honors  of  the  war,"  said  Richard  trium- 
phantly. 

"Little  monkey!"  cried  Robert,  whom  these 
words  stung  to  the  quick,  "  I'll  teach  you  to  bri- 
dle your  saucy  tongue.  How  I  should  like  to 
give  you  such  a  thrashing  as  you  deserve,  if " 

"  If  what  ?  "    asked  Richard. 

"  If  you  weren't  such  a  feeble,  chicken-hearted 
little  creature,"  Robert  replied. 

The  blow  told.  Like  most  delicate  children, 
Richard  was  extremely  sensitive  on  this  point; 
and  thought  nothing  so  much  to  be  envied  and 
desired  as  bodily  strength.  He  was  forever 
contrasting  Robert's  big  limbs  and  strong  health 
•with  his  own  puny,  sickly  frame,  and  the  contrast 
might  have  been  enough  to  prevent  their  under- 


112  Trusted  and  Tried. 

standing  each  other,  or  having  much  in  common, 
even  if  Robert  had  been  far  more  amiable  than 
he  was. 

"  You  are  a  coward,"  said  Richard,  flying  to 
this  objectionable  word  as  the  last  resource  of 
the  weak  against  the  strong. 

"  A  coward  because  I  won't  strike  you,  little 
one?  I " 

"  Come,  come,  boys,  what,  quarrelling  again  ?  " 
said  M.  Lassalles,  who  had  come  in  unobserved, 
as  the  last  high  words  were  spoken  on  either 
side.  "  What  made  you  call  your  brother  a  cow- 
ard, Richard  ?  " 

Richard  told  the  whole  story ;  and  while  he 
did  so  Robert  turned  his  back,  and  began  to  whis- 
tle. M.  Lassalles  took  no  notice  of  this  disre- 
spectful proceeding,  for  he  was  thinking  only  of 
the  disappearance  of  the  boy,  who  had  interested 
him  greatly.  Before  he  left  the  room,  however, 
he  turned  to  Robert,  and  reproved  him  severely 
for  such  conduct  to  the  unoffending  lad. 

"  How  should  I  know  that  beggars  were  to  be 
allowed  here  ?  "  Robert  replied  rudely. 


Trusted  and  Tried.  113 

"He  is  not  a  beggar,"  exclaimed  Richard; 
"  he  is  on  his  way  to  Paris  to  earn  his  living  hon- 
estly, and  if  he  had  asked  for  a  bit  of  bread  by 
the  wa}r,  I  don't  see  anything  to  be  ashamed  of 
in  that." 

"  How  much  eloquence  you  waste  on  the  sub- 
ject ! "  said  Robert  scornfully. 

M.  Lassalles  had  left  the  room  without  another 
word.  Mademoiselle  Leblois  and  Juliet  soon 
entered. 

44  How  you  smell  of  the  stable  !  "  said  Juliet 
to  her  eldest  brother,  at  the  same  time  taking 
out  a  scented  handkerchief,  and  holding  it  to  her 
nose.  "  Couldn't  you  at  least  wash  your  hands 
before  dinner  ?  I  assure  you  such  odors  are  any- 
thing but  pleasant  in  the  dining-room." 

"  I  may  surely  dare  to  offend  your  sensitive 
nose,  Miss  Affectation,  since  you  offend  my  ears 
all  day  long  with  your  incessant  rattling  on  the 
piano." 

"  How  rude  you  are,  Robert ! " 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Miss  Juliet,  when  I  am 
8 


114  Trusted  and  Tried. 

at  home  a  few  weeks  from  college,  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  be  set  upon  by  a  pack  of  women  and  chil- 
dren like  you.  What  harm  have  I  done  you,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?  Tell  me  if  you  can.  I 
can  tell  you  what  use  girls  are,  —  none  at  all  but 
to  bother  other  people." 

Juliet  tossed  her  head  contemptuously,  with- 
out once  raising  her  eyes  from  her  work. 

Mademoiselle  Leblois,  who  seldom  ventured 
to  interfere  at  all  with  Robert,  thought  she  might 
venture  at  least  a  suggestion. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  if  you  were  to 
brush  your  hair  and  your  clothes  before  M.  Las- 
salles  comes  in,"  she  observed. 

"  No,  thank  you,  mademoiselle.  I  intend  to 
remain  as  I  am." 

Mademoiselle  gave  one  glance  at  him  as  he 
was,  —  his  hair  almost  standing  on  end,  his  hands 
of  very  doubtful  cleanliness,  his  necktie  hanging 
loose,  his  clothes  covered  with  stable  dust  and 
bits  of  straw  (for  he  had  been  filling  the  mangers 
to  amuse  himself);  she  sighed,  shook  her  head, 
bnt  said  nothing. 


Trusted  and  Tried.  115 

A  servant  entered  at  this  moment,  bringing  in 
some  letters  and  newspapers,  which  he  laid  upon 
the  table. 

"  Oh,  now  I  can,  see  about  the  races,"  ex- 
claimed Robert ;  "  there's  something  exciting  in 
that,  at  any  rate,"  and  he  tore  open  the  paper. 

"Are  there  any  letters  for  me,  Robert?" 
asked  Juliet. 

"  You  can  look  for  yourself.  It  really  makes 
me  feel  ill  to  look  at  the  letters  young  ladies 
write  to  each  other.  Here,  take  them  all ! " 

He  threw  them  all  at  his  sister  as  he  spoke. 
She  caught  some,  the  others  lay  scattered  about 
on  the  sofa  and  the  floor  There  was  one  for 
her,  which  she  opened,  and  less  critical  eyes  than 
Robert's  might  have  been  alarmed  at  the  num- 
ber of  small  closely  crossed  sheets  which  emerged 
from  the  envelope.  * 

Robert  glanced  over  the  sporting  news,  which 
was  all  that  interested  him  in  the  paper,  and 
went  out  to  report  to  his  confidential  friend,  the 
groom. 


116  Trusted  and  Tried. 

While  he  was  absent,  M.  Lassalles  returned 
and  dinner  was  served. 

*'I  have  brought  back  your  little  protege^ 
Richard,"  said  M.  Lassalles,  after  an  interval  of 
silence. 

"My  little  protege!"  Richard  repeated,  in 
rather  a  sorrowful  tone,  as  it  to  say,  "  I  wish  I 
could  protect  any  one,  but  I  always  need  some- 
body to  protect  me." 

"  Ah,  that  little  beggar,  you  mean,"  observed 
Robert,  who  had  by  this  time  joined  the  party 
at  table. 

"  I  have  promised  him  he  shall  not  again  bo 
insulted  in  my  house,"  M.  Lassalles  went  on, 
not  noticing  Robert's  remark,  "  and  that  as  long 
as  he  stays  here  he  shall  earn  his  own  bread  hon- 
estly. He  is  to  work  under  Anselm  in  the  gar- 
den, and  will  only  come  up  to  the  house  when 
he  is  sent  on  an  errand," 

"  I  am  sorry  for  him  then,  that's  all,"  said 
Robert,  "  for  Anselm  is  about  as  amiable  as  a 
bull-dog.  What  a  cat-and-dog  life  they  will 
lead !  " 


Trusted  and  Tried.  117 

*'  Poor  James  I "  said  Richard,  with  a  sigh. 
Glad  as  he  was  that  his  father  had  brought  James 
back,  his  little  dream  of  having  him  with  him,  to 
carry  nim  and  keep  him  company,  was  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

|HE  weather  was  glorious  for  the  time  of 
year.  For  three  days  Richard  had  stayed 
out-of-doors,  under  the  lime-tree,  almost 
from  morning  till  night.  Sometimes  ho 
would  read,  sometimes  make  stories  of  his  own 
in  his  head,  sometimes  dream  away,  scarcely 
knowing  how  the  time  passed,  till  he  saw  the 
poplar  shadow  growing  long  across  the  grass. 
The  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  was  gone,  and 
there  was  no  longer  the  summer  sound  of  hum- 
ming insects,  or  the  soft  whispering  of  the  wind 
in  the  long  meadow-grass  as  before  the  mowing. 
All  this  pleasant  music  of  the  month  of  June  had 

given  place  to  the  silence,  by  which  the  country 
(118) 


Trusted  and  Tried.  119 

seems  preparing  in  autumn  for  the  long  death  of 
winter.  The  farm  was  situated  at  some  distance 
from  the  castle,  and  the  sounds  of  creature  life 
and  of  busy  labor  could  not  be  heard  in  the  park. 
Nothing  broke  upon  the  stillness  but  the  monot- 
onous tones  of  Juliet's  practising. 

Richard  was   never  very  fond   of  nwsic,  and 

9 

the  incessant  sound  of  the  piano  jarred  upon  his 
nerves,  and  worked  him  sometimes  almost  into  a 
fever  of  impatience.  He  wanted  to  listen  to  the 
silence,  and  the  rattling  noise  disturbed  him. 
Oh,  if  he  could  only  get  up  and  walk  away  out 
of  reach  of  it.  How  he  envied  those  who  had 
the  free  use  of  their  limbs.  He  turned  his  face 
towards  the  wooded  side  of  the  park,  which  he 
had  only  once  passed  when  they  were  driving 
back  to  Paris.  Between  the  little  elevation 
which  was  crowned  by  the  wood  and  that  on 
which  M.  Lassalles'  house  stood,  lay  a  fertile, 
well-watered  valley,  which  went  widening  out 
till  it  closed  with  the  slightly  undulating  hills  of 
the  horizon  line.  At  one  end  of  this  valley  stood 


120  Trusted  and  Tried. 

the  poplar.  No  other  large  trees  were  near,  but 
a  tiny  trickling  stream,  often  lost  in  the  grass, 
Lathed  the  roots  of  some  dwarf  willows,  which 
bent  down  their  light  flexible  boughs  to  the 
water's  edge.  Richard  was  always  longing  to 
get  to  this  stream.  He  wanted  to  bunt  among 
the  long  grass  for  some  of  the  great  blue  forget- 
me-nots,  such  as  his  sister  had  once  brought 
him.  He  longed  to  cut  one  of  those  soft  willow 
wands  with  his  pocket-knife,  and  peel  off  first 
the  leaves  and  then  the  bark,  and  make  shrill 
white  whistles  for  himself.  With  any  other  boy, 
to  will  would  have  been  to  do,  but  what  was  the 
use  of  his  wishing  ?  Even  such  a  simple  pleasure 
as  this  was  beyond  his  reach.  Yet  he  could  not 
tell  what  was  the  matter  with  him,  his  limbs 
looked  like  other  children's,  only  rather  more 
white  and  thin.  He  suffered  no  pain,  nothing  to 
make  him  feel  how  weak  he  was,  till  he  tried  to 
move.  Yet  he  could  not,  try  as  he  would,  raise 
himself  up  and  walk  alone,  even  such  a  short 
way  as  to  that  stream,  which  seemed  to  him  to 


Trusted  and  Tried.  121 

flow  in  a  little  paradise,  and  which  he  had  so 
often  watched  with  longing  eyes.  Richard  had 
read  many  times  in  the  Gospel  of  the  miraculous 
healing  of  the  halt  and  maimed.  Many  times, 
too,  he  had  asked  God,  before  he  went  to  sleep, 
that  he  might  wake  up  in  the  morning  and  find 
that  such  a  miracle  had  been  wrought  upon  him. 
But  it  had  not  come,  and  the  prayer  had  fallen 
back  like  ice  upon  his  heart,  freezing  it  towards 
the  God  who  seemed  not  to  hear.  He  had  not 
told  any  one  about  these  prayers  and  his  disap- 
pointments. Perhaps  if  he  had,  some  one  might 
have  explained  to  him  that  God  often  wants  to 
bring  us  to  accept  His  will,  before  He  delivers 
us  from  the  trial  which  He  has  sent  for  our  good. 
Or,  perhaps,  he  would  have  been  laughed  at  for 
his  simple  faith,  and  the  trusting  heart  of  tha 
child  would  have  been  yet  more  fretted  and 
chafed. 

Richard  was  thinking  of  all  these  things, 
when  a  voice  close  by  him  made  him  start. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 


122  Trusted  and  Tried. 

Richard  turned,  and  saw  James  standing  at 
his  side,  holding  in  his  hand  a  splendid  peach 
wrapped  in  two  vine  leaves. 

"  Why,  James,  is  it  you  ?  I  thought  you 
were  never  coming  to  see  me  any  more,  and  yet 
you  knew  I  could  not  go  to  look  for  you." 

"  Master  Anselm  never  gave  me  leave  to  come 
till  to-day." 

"  And  how  do  you  get  on  with  Anselm  ? 
Don't  you  find  him  a  great  bear  ?  " 

"  He  shows  his  teeth  more  than  he  bites,"  said 
James.  "  I  soon  found  that  out.  Rough-spoken 
people  are  not  always  bad  at  heart.  See,  he 
gave  me  this  peach,  which  I  have  brought  to  you, 
because  I  thought  you  would  like  it.  He  said, 
*  You  can  have  it  ;  they  have  got  enough  up  at 
the  house,  and  it  will  be  rotten  by  to-morrow,' 
and  he  almost  threw  it  in  my  face.  '  But  don't 
you  want  it,  Master  Anselm  ?  *  I  said.  *  I 
should  have  kept  it  if  I  did,  boy.  Come,  now, 
you  needn't  stand  there  looking  at  it;  you  never 
tasted  such  a  peach  in  your  life,  I  can  tell  you, 


Trusted  and  Tried.  123 

And  I  ought  to  know,  for  I  reared  it,  and  ripened 
it.'  *  I  thought  it  was  God  who  made  the  fruits 
grow  and  ripen,'  I  said.  *  Of  course,  you  stupid 
boy ;  but  don't  you  think  God  lets  us  have  a 
hand  in  it,  too  ?  It  would  never  have  grown 
like  that  without  my  care.'  So  saying  he 
walked  away,  but  turned  back  again  to  say,  '  If 
I  had  once  seen  you  so  much  as  look  at  one  fruit 
on  the  tree,  I  should  have  given  you  another 
sort  of  treating  from  this,  I  can  tell  you.'  You 
know  old  Master  Anselm,  Mr.  Richard?" 

"  Very  little  ;  I  have  always  heard  that  he  is 
very  churlish  and  rough,  so  when  he  comes  into 
the  park  I  pretend  not  to  see  him,  or  only  just 
Bay  good-morning." 

"  Then  that's  why  he  says  you  are  so  proud  j 
I  told  him  you  were  not,  but  he  would  not  be- 
lieve me." 

"  And  do  you  find  it  very  bad  to  live  with 
him?" 

*'  Oh,  no ;  I  like  it.  He  is  so  lonely  and  dull 
at  nights.  I  think,  if  he  once  begins  to  love  me, 


124  Trusted  and  Tried. 

he  will  be  happier.  Is  there  nothing  I  can  do 
for  you  now,  Mr.  Richard  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Richard,  afraid  his  companion 
was  going  to  leave  him.  "  Sit  down  here  by  me, 
and  I  will  tell  you.  I  am  not  going  to  eat  your 
beautiful  peach  all  by  myself ;  we  will  have  it 
between  us,  and  talk  while  we  eat  it." 

While  they  were  despatching  the  delicious 
fruit,  Richard  showed  James  the  low  meadow 
where  the  osiers  grew,  and  told  him  how  much 
he  wished  to  go  there. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  replied  the  other  lad.  «« I  can 
easily  carry  you  there." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  you  couldn't." 

"  Why  not  ?  Never  you  fear ;  I  won't  let 
you  fall." 

"  But  I  am  a  great  deal  too  heavy  for  you." 

"  You  heavy  ? "  said  James,  with  a  smile, 
glancing  at  the  little  wasted  limbs.  "  Why,  I 
could  carry  twice  your  weight." 

"  But  perhaps  Anselm  will  scold  if  you  stay." 

*'  Oh,  he  is  gone  down  to  the  village.    He  told 


Trusted  and  Tried.  125 

me  to  dig  up  one  bed,  but  I  can  do  that  this 
evening,  after  work  hours.  Now,  then,  let's  go. 
Nothing  venture,  nothing  have.  Put  your  two 
arms  well  round  my  neck.  Now,  then,  up  I 
Are  you  all  right  ?  I  will  hold  fast,  and  so  do 
you.  Does  it  tire  you  to  clasp  your  arms  round 
my  neck  ?  " 

"  Oh  no ;  I  have  more  strength  in  my  arms 
than  in  my  legs." 

"  All  right,  then  ;  here  we  go." 

They  went  quickly  down  the  slope  which  led 
to  the  osier-bed,  but  it  took  a  good  while  to  get 
to  the  place,  though  James  strode  along  as  fast 
as  he  could.  Richard  laughed,  half  in  pleasure, 
half  in  fear,  at  being  thus  rapidly  carried  on 
James's  back.  At  length  they  reached  the  de- 
sired spot.  James  laid  down  his  burden  upon 
the  grass,  wiped  his  forehead,  and  then,  taking 
off  his  coat,  spread  it  on  the  ground  for  fear 
Richard  should  find  it  damp.  When  he  had 
settled  him  comfortably  on  this  new  sort  of  car- 
pet, he  said,  "  Now,  here  we  are ;  what  would 
you  like  next  ?  " 


126  Trusted  and  Tried. 

Richard  looked  around  him  with  great  delight. 
He  was  close  to  the  tall  poplar,  and  its  shadow 
just  reached  his  feet.  He  could  almost  count 
the  leaves  of  the  poor  little  shrub  he  had  so 
often  looked  at  from  a  distance.  Presently  he 
asked  James  to  go  and  find  him  some  forget-me- 
nots  by  the  water's  edge. 

James  could  not  find  any,  however,  for  the 
season  was  over.  He  searched  in  vain  all  up 
and  down  the  banks.  He  could  find  nothing 
flowering  but  some  meadow-sweet,  growing  in 
the  midst  of  a  clump  of  reeds.  He  next  gath- 
ered a  quantity  of  the  long  flexible  osier  boughs, 
and  began  to  carve  them  skilfully  with  his  pen- 
knife, cutting  the  soft  bark  away  in  all  sorts  of 
fanciful  figures.  Then  he  handed  Richard  the 
pretty  wands,  all  covered  with  green  and  white 
patterns,  and  Richard  was  never  tired  of  admir- 
ing. 

At  length,  after  a  long  silence,  during  which 
Richard  had  been  looking  about  him  dreamily, 
he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  James,  I  almost  wish  I 


Trusted  and  Tried.  127 

had  never  come  here.  This  always  seemed  to 
me  like  a  bit  of  enchanted  land,  where  I  should 
discover  all  sorts  of  marvellous  things  if  I  could 
onty  get  to  it,  and  now  I  have  come  and  seen  it, 
after  all,  I  find  it  is  like  other  places." 

"  You  could  see  from  where  you  were  that 
there  were  only  trees  and  grass,  and  a  little 
water  here,"  replied  James,  laughing. 

"  Yes,  but  I  used  to  fancy  all  sorts  of  marvel- 
lous flowers  growing  out  of  sight.  Are  you 
never  sad,  James  ?  " 

44  When  I  think  of  my  mother  I  am,  but  I 
should  not  be  sad  if  I  were  like  you." 

"  Not  sad  if  you  were  like  me  ?  if  you  couldn't 
walk,  like  me  ?  " 

44  No,"  said  James,  very  decidedly  :  "  for  then 
I  could  learn,  and  I  like  that  very  much." 

44  Learn  what  ?  " 

41  Oh,  all  the  things  there  are  in  those  beau- 
tiful books  that  you  always  have  by  you." 

44  You  don't  know  how  to  read,  then  ?  "  asked 
Richard,  in  surprise,  for  he  almost  thought 
people  learned  to  read  as  they  learn  to  speak. 


128  Trusted  and  Tried. 

"  Just  a  little  I  do,  but  it  takes  me  a  long 
while  to  get  down  a  page,  and  sometimes,  when 
I  get  to  the  last  word  in  the  sentence,  I  have 
forgotten  the  first." 

"  Well,  you  shall  come  and  read  to  me  half 
an  hour  every  day,  if  you  like,  till  you  can  read 
quite  easily." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  James,  with  sparkling 
eyes.  "  Now  I  will  go  and  get  some  more  wil- 
low boughs,  and  you  shall  see  what  I  can 
do." 

He  got  up  and  ran  from  tree  to  tree,  choosing 
out  boughs  of  exactly  the  same  size.  Richard 
followed  his  movements  with  curious  delight. 
Far  from  being  envious  of  his  activity,  and 
strength,  and  nimbleness,  he  liked  to  watch  him, 
and  the  thought  that  he  could  teach  something 
to  a  being  so  superior  to  him  in  other  respects, 
that  he  could  make  James  a  sharer  in  a  good  he 
did  not  yet  possess,  gave  the  crippled  child  a 
sense  of  satisfaction  which  reconciled  him  to  his 
lot.  James  was,  as  we  have  said,  tall,  slight, 


Trusted  and  Tried.  129 

and  thin ;  he  was  a  well-made,  striking-looking 
boy.  Without  really  regular  features,  his  face 
was  pleasant  to  look  at;  his  large,  soft,  dark 
eyes  were  perfectly  frank  and  truthful,  and  at 
the  same  time  bespoke  a  quick  intelligence.  He 
had  that  native  dignity  which  comes  from  a  good 
conscience,  and  an  earnest  desire  to  do  right. 
How  manj*  fathers  would  have  been  proud  of 
such  a  son  !  But  he,  poor  lad,  had  no  father  to 
be  proud  of  him,  no  mother  to  love  him  ! 

When  he  had  found  all  he  wanted,  James  sat 
down  again  by  Richard's  side,  and  tried  to  make 
a  basket,  as  he  had  seen  the  basket-maker  do  in 
the  village.  Richard  meanwhile  stretched  him- 
self out  on  the  grass,  and  rested  his  head  on 
James's  knees. 

"  Oh,  how  nice  this  is  ! "  he  said,  with  a  sigh 
of  satisfaction.  "  I  can  fancy  we  two  are  alone 
in  a  little  boat,  in  the  midst  of  a  great  sea,  with 
no  shore  to  be  seen  on  any  side.  It  is  so  still,— 
so  still,  —  that  we  cannot  feel  any  motion  of  the 
waves.  And  we  are  so  happy  that  we  do  not 


130  Trusted  and  Tried. 

even  wish  to  float  near  to  land,  or  to  discover 
one  little  sail  on  the  horizon.  We  look  up,  and 
there  over  our  heads  is -the  great,  deep,  calm, 
blue  heaven ;  is  seems  as  if  we  might  go  up,  and 
up,  and  up  forever.  And  below  us  is  the  deep, 
deep  sea,  without  a  bottom  or  a  shore." 

Richard  spoke  so  gravely  and  earnestly  that 
even  James  was  for  a  little  while  carried  away 
by  his  words,  and  they  both  fancied  they  were 
out  on  a  charmed  ocean,  being  drifted  along  by 
the  quiet  waves,  like  a  raft  in  a  current. 

They  never  noticed  how  the  time  was  passing, 
and  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  had  already  faded  in 
the  west,  when  James  suddenly  felt  Richard 
shiver  and  tremble  from  head  to  foot. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  cold,  and  I  feel  so  strange. 
James,  I  quite  forgot  that  papa  told  me  never  to 
stay  out  after  the  sun  was  gone  down.  I'm 
afraid  he  will  be  so  angry.  Do  let  us  go  back 
quickly." 

Much  as  James  tried  he  could  not  get  back, 


Trusted  and  Tried.  131 

with  Richard  in  his  arms,  as  quickly  as  he  had 
come  with  him  on  his  shoulders.  The  ground 
sloped  up,  too,  instead  of  down,  and  it  was  much 
harder  work.  Still  he  never  stopped,  till  pant- 
ing and  breathless  he  reached  the  dining-room 
door.  M.  Lassalles,  who  had  become  uneasy 
about  Richard,  had  seen  the  two  coming,  and 
was  prepared  to  blame  the  boys  for  being  so 
thoughtless;  but  the  words  were  checked  on 
his  lips,  as  on  going  up  to  Richard  he  saw  that 
he  had  fainted,  and  was  lying  utterly  powerless 
in  James's  arms. 


CHAPTER   V. 

ff»HE  dampness  of  the  autumn  evening  air, 
and  the  exhalations  of  the  marshy  mead- 
ows had  seized  the  poor  delicate  child, 
and  for  two  or  three  days  he  lay  very  ill. 
As  soon  as  he  recovered  consciousness  he  asked 
for  James,  and  begged  to  have  him  with  him. 
James  must  give  him  his  medicines,  and  no  one 
but  James  could  amuse  him.  M.  Lassalles  made 
no  objection  to  the  boy's  presence,  and  from  that 
time  he  never  left  Richard's  room.  Mademoi- 
selle Leblois  and  Juliet  were  amazed  at  Richard's 
fancy  for  a  little  beggar-boy,  and  did  not  at  all 
approve  of  his  being  allowed  to  take  the  place 
of  one  of  the  members  of  the  family- by  the  sick- 


Trusted  and  Tried.  133 

bed.  They  had,  indeed,  no  forwardness  on 
James's  part  to  complain  of,  for  whenever  they 
went  into  the  room  he  retired  directly  to  the 
farthest  corner  ;  but  if  Richard  noticed  it  he  al- 
ways called  him  back.  The  poor  child  still  suf- 
fered much,  and  no  one  ventured  to  oppose  his 
wishes. 

Had  the  lookers  on  been  kindly  disposed,  or 
even  simply  just  to  James,  they  must  have  re- 
marked the  self-forgetfulness,  presence  of  mind, 
gentleness,  and  patience,  which  made  him  such  a 
pleasant  nurse  and  companion  to  the  little  inva- 
lid. But  they  were  too  much  prejudiced  to  be 
just.  No  one  but  M.  Lassalles  noticed  all  this, 
tnd  he  said  nothing. 

One  day  Richard,  on  arousing  from  a  heavy 
doze,  looked  long  and  steadily  at  James,  who 
was  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  did  not 
know  his  little  patient  was  awake. 

"  How  good  you  are  to  me,"  Richard  said  sud- 
denly. "I^lo  love  you." 

"  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  call  me  good," 


134  Trusted  and  Tried. 

replied  James ;  "  but  if  I  know  how  to  eta  any 
thing  right  I  owe  it  to  my  mother.  She  taught 
me  to  love  God,  and  to  do  as  1  would  be  dono 

by." 

"Do  you  really  love  God  ?"  asked  Richard; 
"you  can't  know  much  about  Him." 

"  I  can  see  His  good  hand  all  around  me," 
James  answered  ;  "  and  then  when  my  mother 
was  alive,  I  saw  how  gentle,  and  patient  and 
good  she  was ;  and  I  knew  it  was  God  who  put 
it  into  her  heart.  When  I  feel  sad  and  lonely  it 
makes  me  happier  to  think  of  God,  who  loves  us 
so  well,  and  is  never  far  awaj'  from  us." 

The  two  boys  spent  much  time  talking  in  this 
way  in  the  bedroom.  Very  different  scenes 
meanwhile  were  passing  below.  Robert  had 
hardly  troubled  to  come  to  see  his  sick  brother 
even  once  a  day,  and  had  shown  not  the  slightest 
care  or  concern  about  him.  The  only  companion 
he  cared  for  was  his  father's  new  groom.  M. 
Lassallcs  had  repeatedly  told  him  bow  much  he 
disapproved  of  this  intimacy,  but  Robert  paid  no 


Trusted  and  Tried.  135 

attention  to  nis  words,  and  had  even  rudely  an- 
swered one  day  that  he  should  be  bored  to  death 
at  home  if  it  were  not  for  Philip's  company. 

He  became  daily  more  insolent,  coarse,  and 
sullen  in  his  behavior  to  his  own  family.  The 
groom  kept  him  in  a  state  of  perpetual  irritation 
by  telling  him  of  the  horses  and  the  meets  of  the 
last  young  master  he  had  lived  with,  who  was 
not  older  than  Robert,  but  had  his  own  guns, 
dogs  and  horses.  Robert  felt  himself  aggrieved, 
and  treated  like  a  child,  because  he  had  only  his 
old  pony  to  ride.  His  ill-humor  fell  principally 
on  James,  to  whom  he  gave  an  insolent  word 
whenever  he  was  out  of  his  father's  hearing. 

"  What  a  pity  it  is,  Master  Robert,"  said 
Philip,  "  that  your  father  won't  let  you  hunt. 
Not  many  young  gentlemen  of  your  age  are  so 
obedient  as  you.  M.  Arthur  wouldn't  have  sub- 
mitted to  be  kept  like  a  caged  bird  with  his 
wings  clipped,  I  know." 

"  I  have  told  you  often  enough,  Philip,'* 
Robert  replied,  pettishly,  "  that  my  father  saw 


136  Trusted  and  Tried. 

a  dreadful  accident  happen  to  one  of  his  brothers 
when  he  was  young,  and  out  hunting  ;  and  ever 
since  then  he  cannot  bear  the  name  of  field 
eports." 

"  But  that's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  go 
shooting,  Master  Robert.  If  we  had  a  gun  we 
might  set  off  together,  and  nobody  be  any  tho 
wiser." 

"  Ah,  if  I  only  had  a  gun ! "   sighed  Robert. 

"I  saw  a  splendid  one  the  other  day, — such 
a  bargain.  You  give  me  a  hundred  francs  and 
I'll  get  it  for  you  this  very  night,"  said  Philip. 

"  A  hundred  francs  !  but  I  haven't  got  them. 
I  have  only  twenty  left  in  my  purse." 

"  Ask  your  father.  He  is  rich  enough  to  let 
you  have  as  much  as  you  want." 

Such  conversations  passed  repeatedly  till  tho 
wish  to  possess  the  splendid  gun  took  such  hold 
of  Robert  that  he  could  think  of  nothing  else. 
Such  a  desire  becomes  a  terrible  temptation  to 
an  ill-regulated  mind  like  Robert's.  He  had  no 
strength  better  than  his  own  to  keep  him  from 


Trusted  and  Tried.  137 

evil,  —  for  he  never  prayed,  and  the  thought  of 
God  had  no  place  in  his  heart. 

One  day  Richard  having  passed  a  bad  night, 
fell  asleep  in  the  afternoon,  and  his  faithful  at- 
tendant worn  out  too,  dropped  off  himself,  with 
his  head  resting  on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  While 
they  were  both  sleeping,  Robert  came  into  the 
room  to  see  if  he  had  left  his  knife  there  the 
evening  before.  His  eye  fell  at  once  upon  a 
bank-note  lying  on  the  table.  It  was  for  one 
hundred  francs.  Just  the  price  of  the  gun ! 
Who  would  be  the  wiser  if  he  took  it  ?  Rich- 
ard's little  pale  face  lay  motionless  on  the  pillow. 
James's  head  was  buried  in  the  counterpane ; 
both  were  breathing  heavily.  The  temptation 
was  strong.  Robert  caught  up  the  note,  slipped 
it  into  his  pocket,  and  trembling  all  over,  glided 
out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe  lest  the  slightest  sound 
should  awake  one  of  the  sleepers.  He  had 
reached  the  door,  and  was  just  turning  to  shut 
it,  when  he  started  to  see  James's  eyes  fixed 
upon  him  with  a  steady,  searching  gaze.  Had 


138  Trusted  and  Tried. 

he  been  seen  ?  Would  he  be  suspected  ?  Oh, 
how  he  detested  that  boy  who  had  been  acting 
the  spy,  perhaps,  and  would  betray  him. 

The  links  which  form  the  heavy  chain  of  sin 
are  quickly  forged.  The  thought  that  the  sus- 
picion of  the  theft  might  easily  be  made  to  fall 
on  James  himself  flashed  into  Robert's  mind, 
and  he  welcomed  it. 

A  few  moments  after  M.  Lassalles  came  into 
the  room.  Richard  had  just  awoke. 

"  Did  I  not  leave  a  bank-note  here  ?  "  M.  Las- 
salles asked.  "  I  think  it  must  have  fallen  out 
of  my  pocket-book  when  I  opened  it  If  it  is 
not  here  I  do  not  know  where  to  look." 

"  Oh,  yes,  papa,"  said  Richard  ;  "  we  found  it 
a  moment,  after  you  were  gone  out,  and  put  it 
here  on  the  table  for  you.  James,  where  is  it  ?  " 

But  James  was  looking  in  vain.  The  bank- 
note was  not  where  they  had  put  it.  He  could 
not  help  recalling  Robert's  startled  look  as  he 
had  suddenly  woke  up,  and  seen  him  leaving 
the  room. 


Trusted  and  Tried.  139 

"Has  any  one  been  in  since  I  was  here?" 
asked  M.  Lassalles. 

"  No,  papa,  nobody." 

James  did  not  contradict  the  words.  How 
could  he  throw  suspicion  on  the  son  of  his  ben- 
efactor ?  And  then  he  really  could  not  believe 
Robert  would  be  capable  of  such  an  act.  The 
bank-note  would  certainly  be  found.  He  went 
on  seeking.  M.  Lassalles  watched  him  with 
a  troubled  countenance.  But  the  search  was 
utterly  vain ;  the  bank-note  was  gone  beyond  a 
doubt.  M.  Lassalles,  fearing  to  agitate  the  lit- 
tle invalid,  left  the  room  without  a  word.  A. 
few  minutes  after  James  was  sent  for,  and  did 
not  come  back. 

It  was  not  a  mere  suspicion  which  rested  upon 
the  poor  lad.  M.  Lassalles  thought  his  guilt  was 

• 

clear.  It  cost  him  much  to  renounce  the  trust 
he  had  placed  in  the  honest  open  countenance 
of  the  orphan  boy.  But  who  has  not  been 
deceived  by  appearances  ?  How  often  does  vice 
put  on  the  garb  of  virtue  I 


140  Trusted  and  Tried. 

"Anselm  was  right,"  said  M.  Lassalles  to 
himself,  as  he  walked  slowly  towards  the  gar- 
deners's  cottage ;  "  I  was  very  imprudent  in 
taking  such  a  boy  into  the  house,  and  allowing 
him  to  be  friendly  with  my  son.  How  difficult 
it  is  to  act  wisely." 

James  had  gone  up  to  the  little  room  he  used 
to  occupy  before  he  became  Richard's  companion. 
Anselm,  contrary  to  custom,  was  standing  at  the 
door  of  his  cottage,  with  his  hands  behind  him, 
and  a  very  grave  look  on  his  face. 

"You  know  what  has  happened,  Anselm," 
said  his  master. 

"  I  know  what  is  said,"  replied  the  gardener 
gloomily. 

"  And  you  do  not  believe  it  ?  "  asked  M.  Las- 
salles, in  a  surprised  tone.  "  Why,  you  alwaya 
thought  badly  of  the  boy." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  old  man,  with  the  calmness 
given  by  strong  conviction,  "I  know  that  boy 
well  now,  and  I  am  certain  he  is  not  guilty." 

After  leaving  Anselm,  M.   Lassalles  returned 


Trusted  and  Tried.  141 

to  Richard's  room.  He  found  him  weeping  bit- 
terly, and  deaf  to  all  the  arguments  of  his  sister 
and  her  governess. 

"  It  is  a  wicked  shame !  "  he  repeated  again 
and  again.  "  Why  not  accuse  me  ?  I  was  in 
the  room  as  well  as  James.'' 

"  It  is  very  painful  to  me  to  accuse  James," 
said  M.  Lassalles,  "  but  you  must  understand 
that  I  should  still  less  think  of  suspecting  my 
own  son.  Beside,  my  poor  child,  do  you  want 
us  to  suppose  that  you  got  up  out  of  your  bed  to 
hide  the  note,  when  we  know  you  cannot  stand  ? 
No,  my  little  man,  you  cannot  take  it  upon  your 
self." 

Richard  buried  his  face  in  the  clothes  and 
sobbed. 

*•  He  loved  me  so,  and  was  so  kind  to  me,  and 
did  everything  for  me,  and  now  this  is  how  they 
treat  him.  Oh,  James !  James !  If  I  could 
only  tell  him  that  I  know  he  did  not  do  it." 

Two  days  passed  away,  and  Robert,  whom  no 
one  suspected,  was  certainly  the  most  miserable 


142  Trusted  and  Tried. 

of  all.  He  had  not  had  a  moment's  peace  since 
he  had  touched  the  fatal  note.  He  had  locked 
it  up  in  a  drawer  and  carried  the  key  always  in 
his  pocket,  but  it  seemed  to  burn  him  every  time 
he  felt  it  was  there.  Twenty  times  he  was  on 
the  point  of  secrectly  putting  the  note  back  in 
his  father's  desk,  but  he  dared  not.  How  could 
it  be  explained  ?  Oh,  if  he  had  only  known 
what  wretchedness  that  sin  would  cost  him. 

As  he  was  walking  alone  in  the  park  one 
evening,  anxious  to  avoid  everybody's  eyes,  an-d 
yet  half  frightened  to  be  alone,  feeling  an  Eye 
upon  him  all  the  while  which  he  could  not 
escape,  and  which  read  him  through  and  through, 
he  suddenly  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
James. 

"  What  do  you  want  here  ? "  said  Robert, 
who  trembled  violently  when  he  saw  him. 
James  was  very  pale  and  hollow-eyed  ;  it  was 
plain  that  he  had  been  suffering  terribly. 

"  Mr.  Robert,"  he  said,  "  tell  the  truth  to  your 
father.  Do,  I  implore  you  1  You  know  you 


Trusted  and  Tried.  143 

cannot  hide  it  from  God,  and  you  cannot  for- 
give yourself." 

"  What  do  you  mean  V  "  said  Robert,  passion- 
ately. "  Leave  me  alone.  I  don't  know  what 
you  want  with  me." 

"  Yes,  you  do  know.  But  perhaps  you  do 
not  understand  all  the  harm  you  are  doing  me  in 
letting  me  be  suspected  of  this  theft.  I  have 
stayed  here  till  now,  because  I  hoped  you  would 

speak.  I  never  thought  you  could But 

to-morrow  I  shall  go." 

His  courage  broke  down  as  he  said  these 
words,  and  with  a  voice  broken  by  sobs,  he 
added  —  "I  shall  go,  and  they  will  think  me 
guilty.  Even  Richard  will  think  so.  Oh  God, 
what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Through  the  whole  night  after  this  conversa- 
tion, Robert  could  not  sleep  a  wink.  He  had 
always  before  him  James's  white  face  and 
reproachful  look.  He  kept  hearing  the  heart- 
broken tone  of  his  last  words. 

" 1  cannot  hide  it  from  God,"  he  said  to  him- 


144  Trusted  and  Tried. 

self,  "  and  I  cannot  forgive  myself.  It  is  true, 
it  is  true  ; "  and  he  found  not  a  moment's  peace 
till  he  had  taken  the  firm  resolve  to  go  to  his 
father  as  soon  as  it  was  day,  and  confess  all. 
We  will  not  describe  what  followed  that  confes- 
sion. It  was  an  hour  never  to  be  forgotten  in 
Robert's  life,  when,  humbled  and  penitent  as  ho 
was,  he  heard  his  father  tell  him  that  he  loved 
him  still,  and  had  more  hope  of  him  now  than  he 
had  had  for  many  a  day. 

How  shall  we  describe  either,  the  meeting  be- 
tween Richard  and  James  ?  James  had  already 
packed  up  his  little  bundle  and  was  just  about 
to  start,  when  he  was  sent  for  to  M.  Lassalles. 
His  master  gave  him  a  strong  grasp  of  the  hand, 
arid  then  led  him  to  Richard's  bedside. 

*'  I  never  believed  it  for  one  instant,"  whis- 
pered Richard,  as  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight  he 
clasped  his  arms  round  James's  neck. 

Presently  Robert  came  in.  He  looked  very 
pale,  and  did  not  lift  his  eyes  to  James's  face  as 
he  held  out  his  hand  and  asked  him  in  a  scarcely 


Trusted  and  Tried.  145 

audible  voice  to  forgive  him  the  wrong  he  had 
done.  James  seized  the  offered  hand,  and 
pressed  it  between  his  own,  which  trembled  with 
joy,  whils  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  From 
that  moment  the  proud  young  master  and  the 
honest  serving-lad  were  trusty  friends. 

It  was  decided  that  James  should  go  on  work- 
ing undsr  Anselm's  orders,  but  at  the  same  time 
he  was  to  spend  some  hours  each  day  under 
Richard's  teaching.  Thus  his  two  great  desires 
were  fulfilled ;  he  learned  the  mystery  of  books, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  proved  the  higher  joy 
of  loving  and  being  beloved. 


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MARGARET    SIDNEY'S    BOOKS. 

Margaret  Sidney  may  be  safely  set  down  as  one  of  the  best  writers  of 
jurenile  literature  in  the  country.  — Boston  Transcript. 

Margaret  Sidney's  books  are  happily  described  as  "  strong  and  pure 
from  cover  to  cover,  .  .  bright  and  piquant  as  the  mountain  breezes,  or 
a  dash  on  pony  back  of  a  June  morning."  The  same  writer  speaks  of  her 
as  "  An  American  authoress  who  will  hold  her  own  in  the  competitive 
good  work  executed  by  the  many  bright  writing  women  of  to-day." 

There  are  few  better  story  writeis  than  Margaret  Sidney.  —  HeralA 
and  Presbyter. 

Comments  of  the  Secular  ami  Religious  Prca*. 

FIVE  LITTLE  PEPPERS  AND   HOW  THEY  GREW. 

A  charming  work.  .  .  The  home  scenes  in  which  these  little  Pep* 
pers  are  engaged  are  capitally  described.  .  .  Will  find  prominent  place 
among  the  higher  class  of  juvenile  presentation  books. — Religions  Htrald. 

One  of  the  best  told  tales  given  to  the  children  for  some  time.  .  . 
The  perfect  reproduction  of  child-life  in  its  minutest  phases,  catches  one's 
attention  at  once.  —  Christian  A  dvocate. 

A  good  book  to  place  in  the  hands  of   every  boy  or  girl.  —  Chicago 
Inter-Ocean. 
BO  AS  BY  FIRE. 

Will  be  hailed  with  eager  delight,  and  found  well  worth  reading.— 
Christian  Observer. 

An  admirable  Sunday-school  book  —  Arkansas  Evangel. 

We  have  followed  with  intense  interest  the  story  of  David  Folsom.     . 

.     A  man  poor,  friendless,  and  addicted  to  drink ;     .     .     the  influence 
of  Httle  Cricket;     .     .     the  faithful  care  of  aunt   Phebe ;    all  step*  by 
which  he  climbed  to  higher  manhood.  —  Woman  at  Work. 
THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

It  is  one  of  the  finest  pieces  of  American  fiction  that  has  been  pubr 
lished  for  some  time.  —  Newsdealers1  Bulletin,  New  York. 

It  ought  to  attract  wide  attention  from  the  simplicity  of  its  style,  and 
the  vigor  and  originality  of  its  treatment.  —  Chicago  Herald. 

This  is  a  capital  story  illustrating  New  England  life.  —  Inter-Ocean, 
Chicago. 

The  characters  of  the  story  seem  all  to  be  studies  from  life.  —  Boston 
Post. 

It  is  a  New  England  tale,  and  its  characters  are  true  to  the  original 
type,  and  show  careful  study  and  no  little  skill  in  portraiture.  —  Chrittian 
it  Work,  New  York. 

To  be  commended  to  readers  for  excellent  delineations,  sparkling  style, 
bright  incident  and  genuine  interest  —  The  Watchman. 

A  capital  story ;  bright  with  excellent  sketches  of  character.     Conveys 
good  moral  and  spiritual   lessons.     .     .     In  short,  the  book  is  in  every 
way  well  done.       Illustrated  Christian  Weekly. 
HALF  YEAR  AT  BRONCKTON. 

A  live  boy  writes :  "  This  is  about  the  best  book  that  ever  was  written 
or  ever  can  be." 

"  This  bright  and  earnest  story  ought  to  go  into  the  hands  of  e\?ry  boy 
who  u  old  enough  to  be  subjected  to  the  temptations  of  school  life." 

D.  LOTHROP  Sr,  CO.,  Publishers.  Boetoo. 


AFTER  THOUGHTS  OF  FOREIGN  TRAVEL. 
BY  REV.  S.  H.  McCoLLESTEB,  D.  D. 

The  author  has  a  happy  faculty  for  vivid  descriptions  of 
places  and  events,  but  the  greater  value  of  the  work  to  the 
student  is  in  the  care  and  accuracy  with  which  the  history  of 
the  many  points  of  interest  visited  has  been  given.  The  read- 
er not  only  sees  the  towns,  churches  and  castles  as  the  author 
saw  them,  hut  by  his  aid  sees  them  in  the  light  of  other  days  in 
connection  with  the  great  events  which  have  forever  made  them 
memorable.  —  Boston  Journal. 

A  book  of  rare  excellence.  The  author  gathered  the  choicest 
material  as  he  passed  along,  omitting  the  commonplace  facts 
and  incidents  which  usually  find  their  way  into  books  of  this 
class;  he  has  arranged  this  material  very  happily,  to  gain  and 
Uold  the  attention  of  his  readers,  and  has  expressed  his  after- 
thoughts in  a  clear  and  attractive  style.  The  book  is  at  once, 
both  fascinating  and  instructive  in  an  unusual  degree.  —  Hiram 
Orcutt, 

One  of  the  liveliest  books  of  travel  we  have  taken  up  for  a 
long  time.  To  read  it  attentively,  is  to  travel  side  by  side  with 
the  writer,  seeing  with  our  own,  as  well  as  with  his  eyes.  We 
heartily  thank  the  authorfor  the  privilege  of  visiting,  with  him, 
London,  Edinburgh,  Paris,  Rome,  Athens,  Alexandria,  Jerusa- 
lem, and  so  many  other  places  where  our  feet  have  not 
trodden,  hut  \vhieh  we  have  really  seen. — Rev.  J.  G.  Adam*, 
D.D. 

The  book  is  the  work  of  a  man  who  sees  and  thinks,  and 
who,  when  he  travels,  brings  back  something  to  tell  worth 

listening  to One  of  the  few  in  the  great  flood  of 

books  of  trav-el  that  are  worth  reading.  —  Vt.  Ecformer. 

12mo,  clo'.n.    Price,  $1.50. 

D.  LOTHROP  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 

83  FRANKLJK  STSXJCT,  BOSTOS. 


SELF-GIVING. 

*  Have  read  with  interest,  and  with  admiration  01  the  vivid- 
ness and  accuracy  which  characterize  the  descriptions  given." 

—  Rt.  Rev.  Thomas  M.  Clark,  D.  D.,  Bishop  of  Rhode  Island. 
"Very  interesting.     A  true  insight ;  literally  truth." —  Chris- 
tian Observer,  Louisville,  Ky. 

"  It  is  best  that  the  truth  should  be  told  about  this  matter."  — 
The  Budget,  Boston. 

"Important  information.  Highly  interesting  as  a  story."  — 
Lutheran  Observer,  Philadelphia. 

"  Very  instructive.  His  revealments  are  not  at  all  damaging 
to  any  who  regard  them  properly.  Wish  all  would  read  it"  — 
Journal  and  Messenger,  Cincinnati. 

"Impartial,  thorough  and  attractive."  —  Journal,  Providence. 

"  Will  receive  a  cordial  welcome  by  a  host  of  his  admirers." 

—  The  Methodist,  Philadelphia. 

"As  throwing  light  upon  the  practical  features  of  the  mission- 
ary operations  of  to-day,  the  work  has  no  equal  in  missionary 
literature.'' — Advocate  of  Missions,  Nashville,  Tenn. 

"  Illustrates  powerfully '  Self-Giving.'  Read  intelligently,  the 
influence  of  the  book  will  be  thoroughly  good."  —  President 
Hovey,  Newton  Theo.  Sem. 

"  A  valuable  work,  rich  in  hints  and  suggestions.  —  Sec'y  M 
G.  Clark,  D.  D.,  American  Board. 

"  How  much  we  have  enjoyed  I  All  the  churches  are  greatly 
indebted." — Rev.  B.  H.  Badley,  Methodist  Missionary,  Luck- 
now,  India. 

"Deserving  and  certain  of  larger  circulation  than  even  same 
author's  Tour  of  Missions."  —  Rev.  J.  Nevius.  D.  D.,  Presby 
teriao  Missionary,  China. 


"PANSY'    BOOKS. 

Probably  no  living  author  has  exerted  an  influence  upop  %» 
American  people  at  large,  at  all  comparable  with  Pansy's.  Ttiot» 
lands  upon  thousands  of  families  read  her  books  every  week,  anq 
the  effect  in  the  direction  of  right  feeling,  right  thinking,  and 
right  living  is  incalculable. 

Each  volume  12mo.     Cloth.    Price,  SI. 50. 
FOUR  GIRLS  AT  CIIAUTAUQUA.  MODERN  PUOPHETS. 
CHAUTAUQUA  GIRLS  AT  HOME.  ECHOING  AND  RE-ECHOING. 
RUTH  EKSKINE'S  CROSSES.         TIIOSK  BOYS. 
ESTER  RIED.  THE  RANDOLPHS. 

JULIA  RIED.  TIP  LEWIS. 

KING'S  DAUGHTER.  SIDNEY  MARTIN'S  CHRISTMA*. 

WISE  AND  OTHERWISE.  DIVERS  WOMF.N. 

ESTER  RIED  "YET  SPEAKING."  A  NEW  GRAFT. 
LISKS  IN  REBECCA'S  LIFE.       THE  POCKET  MEASURE. 
Fi*OJt  DIFFERENT  STAND-          MRS.  SOLOMON  SMITH. 
THREE  PEOPLE.  [POINTS.  THE  HALL  IN  THE  GROVE. 

HOUSEHOLD  PUZZLES.  MAN  OF  THE  HOUSE. 

AN  ENDLESS  CHAIN. 

Each  volume  12mo.     Cloth.    Price,  $1.25. 
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MRS.  DEAN'S  WAY.  WHAT  SHE  SAID  and 

DR.  DEAN'S  WAY.  PEOPI  K  WHO  HAVEN'T  Tim 

Each  volume  IGmo.     Cloth.     Price,  $1.00. 
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SOME  YOUNG  HEROINES. 

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Two  BOYS.  DOCIA'S  JOURNAL. 

Six  LITTLE  GIRLS.  HELEN  LESTER. 

PANSIES.  BEKNIK'S  WHITE  CHICKES. 

THAT  BOY  BOB.  MARY  BURTON  ABROAD. 

SIDE  BY  SIDE.    Price,  $.60. 

The  Little  Pansy  Series,  10  vols.     Boards,  $:5.00.  Cloth, 
Mother's  Boys  and  Girls'  Library.  12  vols.    Quarto  Boards,  $2. 
Pansy  Primary  Library,  30  rol.     Cloth.     Price,  $7.50. 
Half  Hour  Library.    Octavo,  3  vcJa.     Price,  §3.20. 


MARIE  OLIVER'S  STORIES. 

3  vols,  isrno  cloth,  illustrated,  $1.50  each;  the  set  $4.50. 

BUSY  HAMILTON.  OLD  AND  NEW  FBIENDa 

GZiDA'3  DISCIPLINE. 

Extraziffsaxt  co>u»tenti  of  •null-kntneiijciirna.h. 
RUBY  HAMILTON. 

This  is  a  very  excellent  Sunday-school  book,  which  can  be 
honestly  commended  for  youthful  readers.  —  The  Watchman. 

It  is  a  well-told  story,  conveys  a  pure,  healthful  lesson,  and 
is  one  of  the  best  books  of  its  class.  —  Philadelphia  Enquirer. 

This  is  one  of  the  best  Sunday-school  books  in  Lothrop's 
long  and  admirable  list.  The  story  is  a  sweet  one,  and 
charmingly  told.  —  Church  Mirror. 

The  spirit  throughout  is  healthy  and  devout.  .  .  .  Al- 
together it  is  a  charming  aixl  instructive  book.  —  The  Church- 


OLD  AND  NEW  FRIENDS. 

A  very  excellent  specimen  of  the  class  of  fiction  designed 
for  young  folk  who  have  ceased  to  be  children  without 
having  become  mature  men  and  women.  —  JV.  Y.  Evening 
Post. 

Many  readers  will  remember  "Ruby  Hamilton,"  a  volume 
which  created  quite  a  sensation  at  the  time  of  its  publication. 
.  .  .  This  volume,  a  continuation  of  this  story,  ought  to 
become  as  popular  as  its  predecessor.  —  Chriftian  Mirror. 

Contains  some  charming  pictures  of  home-life.  .  .  . 
Cannot  but  help  and  strengthen  the  boy  whose  impulses 
are  for  good.  —  Herald  and  Presbyter. 

Like  all  that  comes  from  this  author's  pen,  this  volume 
has  merits  of  both  substance  and  style.  —  Western  Christian 
Advocate. 

Adds  another  to  the  list  of  really  gooj  story  books.— 
Cincinnati  Journal  and  Messenger. 

BEBA'S  DISCIPLINE. 

A  good  lx>ok  to  teach  the  uses  of  trouble  in  building  up  char* 
flcter.  —  Western  Recorder. 

Has  a  varied  and  absorbing  interest  from  its  beginning  to  its 
close.  .  .  .  Sometimes  sad  and  wonderfully  pathetic;  some- 
times bright  and  cheerful,  it  is  impressive  always.  In  every 
respect  it  is  the  best  religious  story  we  have  seen  for  many  a 
day,  and  one  .  .  .  that  can  scarcely  fail  to  benefit  any 
leader  whom  God  leads  along  rough  paths.  —  The  Interior. 

Should  be  in  every  Sunday-school  library.  —  The  Standard, 

D.  LOTHEOP  &  CO..  Publishers.  Boston. 


SPARE  MINUTE  SERIES. 


THOUGHTS   THAT   BREATHE. 
From  Dean  Stanley.     Introduction  by  Phillips  Brooks. 

CHEERFUL   WORDS. 

From  George  MacDonald.    Introduction  by  James  T.  Fielda 
THE   MIGHT   OF   RIGHT. 

From  Rt.  Hon.  Wm.  E.  Gladstone.   Introduction  by  John  D. 
Long,  LL.  D. 

TRUE   MANLINESS. 

From  Thomas  Hughes.   Introduction  by  Hon.  James  Russell 
Lowell. 

LIVING  TRUTHS. 
From  Charles  Kingsley.     Introduction  by  W.  D.  Howells. 

RIGHT   TO   THE   POINT. 

From  Theodore  L.  Cuyler,  D.  D.     Introduction  by  Newman 
Hall,  LL.  B. 

MANY    COLORED  THREADS. 
From  Goethe.     Introduction  by  Alexander  McKeime,  D.  D. 

ECHOES   OF   MANY  VOICES. 
Introduction  by  Mrs.  E.  A.  Thurston. 

TREASURE  THOUGHTS. 
From  Canon  Farrar.    Introduction  by  Rose  Porter. 


Each  volume,  1 2*7/0,  cloth,  $1.00. 

D.  LOTHROP  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

Franklin  and  Hawley  Streets,  Boitoa, 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 


OBIGINAMTY.  By  Elias  Nason.  Boston:  D.  Lothrop  & 
Co.  Price  $.50.  Mr.  Nason  has  here  made  a  reply  to 
Wendell  Phillips'  "Lost  Arts,"  which  is  well  worth  read- 
ing for  its  point  and  snggestiveness.  He  endeavors  to  slmv 
the  meaning  of  the  word,  and  what  important  results  have 
come  from  the  originating  powers  of  a  few  bright  men  since 
the  beginning  of  civilization.  He  takes  up,  one  by  one,  ihe 
points  made  by  Mr.  Phillips  in  his  famous  lecture,  and  shows 
on  what  slight,  grounds  they  rest,  and  of  how  little  weight 
they  really  are  when  examined  and  analyzed.  Mr.  Nason 
does  not  believe  that  any  of  the  useful  arts  have  been  lost. 
The  ancients  had  few  to  lose.  They  made  glass,  but  they 
did  not  know  how  to  use  it.  They  could  embalm  dead 
bodies;  hut  of  what  use  were  embalmed  dead  bodies  ?  They 
Jiad  some  knowledge  of  mathematics,  but  a  school-boy's 
arithmetic  to-day  contains  more  mathematical  knowledge 
than  has  come  out  of  all  the  exhumed  cities  of  the  Orient. 
There  were  more  marvels  of  art  displayed  at  the  Centennial 
exhibition  than  in  the  ancient  world  for  twenty  centuries. 
Mr.  Nason  insists  that  the  seslhetical  productions  of  the 
ancients  have  bean  vastly  over-estimated.  The  periods  of 
Demosthenes,"  he  says,  "yield  in  Titanic  force  to  the 
double-compact  sentences  of  Daniel  Webster.  Mr.  Phillips 
himself  has  sometimes  spoken  more  eloquently  than  Cicero. 
Homer  never  rises  to  the  sublimity  of  John  Milton."  The 
world  grows  wiser  and  better.  Age  by  age,  it  has  been  de- 
veloping its  resources  and  adding  pearl  to  pearl  to  the  diadem 
of  its  wisdom;  sometimes  slower,  sometimes  quicker,  but 
always  upward  and  onward.  Mr.  Nason  writes  in  a  fresh 
and  sparkling  style,  and  the  thousands  who  have  listened 
with  rapt  attention  to  Mr.  Phillips'  eloquent  presentation  of 
his  side  of  the  question  will  find  equal  pleasure  and  greater 
profit  in  reading  this  charming  essay,  which  is  equally  elo- 
quent and  unquestionably  sounder  in  its  conclusions. 

THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS.  By 
Phebe  A.  Hanaford.  Boston:  D.  Lothrop  &  Co.  Price 
$1.50.  A  life  of  Dickens,  written  by  a  popular  author 
and  upon  a  new  plan,  will  be  sure  to  meet  with  favor  at  the 
hands  of  the  public.  Mrs.  Hanaford  has  not  attempted  to 
write  a  critical  and  original  analysis  of  the  great  author 
from  her  own  point  of  view,  but,  while  sketching  the  main 
incidents  of  his  life,  has  quoted  liberally  from  his  works  to 
illustrate  his  genius,  and  from  the  correspondence  and 
writings  of  his  personal  friends  to  show  the  estimation  in 
which  he  was  held  by  them  as  a  man,  a  philanthropist  and 
a  Christian.  The  volume  commends  itself  to  every  lover  of 
Dickens,  and  deserve*  to  be  widely  known  and  read. 


NEW    BOOKS. 


AROUND  THE  WORLD  TOUR  OF  CHRISTIAN  MISSIONS.  A  UNIVERSAL  SURVKY. 
By  William  F.  Bainbridge.  With  Maps  of  Prevailing  Religions  and  all  Lead- 
ing Missions  Stations.  Boston  :  D.  Lothrop  &  Co  Price  $2.00. 
The  readers  of  the  JOURNAL  are  enjoyably  familiar  with  "Round  the  World 
Letters,"  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Bainbricge,  which  have  recently  been  published 
in  book  form.  The  same  publishers  now  issue  a  volume  written  by  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Bainbridge,  but  occupying  a  different  field  of  research,  and  embodying  more 
directly  the  principal  purpose  of  the  tour.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bainbridge  with  their 
son  and  a  friend  made  up  the  little  party  that  started  for  a  two  years'  journey 
around  the  globe.  Their  object  incidentally  was  to  improve  the  opportunities  for 
sigb'.-seeing  afforded  by  foreign  travel,  but  primarily  to  examine  the  principal 
mission-fields  throughout  the  world.  They  travelled  at  their  own  expense,  and 
were  therefore  unfettered  by  obligation  to  any  special  missionary  organization. 
The  only  help  received  was  in  the  form  of  introductory  letters  from  the  secretaries 
of  the  leading  Foreign  Missionary  Societies  of  America.  They  visited  over  a 
thousand  missionaries,  made  a  close  personal  examination  of  the  details  of  their 
work,  the  amount  of  good  they  were  accomplishing,  and  the  scops  and  bearing  of 
present  effort  in  relation  to  the  prospect  of  the  evangelization  of  the  heathen. 
They  returned  freighted  with  the  rich  material  they  had  so  carefully  garnered, 
and  full  of  hope  that  the  day  will  sometime  dawn  when  the  Christian  religion 
shall  prevail  throughout  the  land. 

On  the  return  of  the  tourists  to  America,  Mr.  Bainbridge  was  urged  by  the  ex- 
ecutive officers  of  the  missionary  societiej  of  the  different  branches  of  •  the 
Church  to  publish  a  record  of  his  personal  impressions  concerning  the  utility  and 
methods  of  Christian  Missions.  He  accepted  ths  commission,  and  the  volume 
now  issued  under  the  title  of  "  Around  the  World  Tour  of  Christian  Missions," 
embodies  the  result  of  his  labors.  The  work  could  not  have  been  placed  in 
better  hands.  —  Providence  Jynrnal. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  LETTERS.    By  Lucy  S.  Bainbridge.     Boston :  D.  Lothrop 

&  Co.    Price  $1.50. 

The  author,  who  had  perseverance  and  energy  enough  to  travel  round  the 
world,  happily  possesses  the  facile  pen  that  enables  her  to  paint  a  vivid  picture  of 
her  adventures  by  the  way.  The  letters  are  so  sprightly  and  vivacious,  the  scenes 
are  so  graphically  portrayed,  the  character-portraits  are  so  vigorously  outlined, 
and  the  information  is  so  tangible  that  the  reader  seems  for  a  Urns  to  bs  trans- 
ported to  foreign  shores,  to  become  a  member  of  the  pleasant  travelling  party, 
and  to  share  in  the  perplexities  and  pleasures,  the  good  fortune  and  evil  fortune 
that  blend  in  the  story,  and  develop  stores  of  information  seldom  accessible  from 
to  reliable  a  soure*.  —  r 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 


AFTEB  THE  FRESHET.  By  Edward  A.  Rand.  Boston: 
D.  Lotlirop  &  Co.  Price  $1.25.  This  is  the  second  volume 
in  the  V  I  F  series  which  was  stamped  with  success  by  the 
first  issue.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  of  any  books  of  Mr. 
Rand's  that  they  are  bright,  interesting  and  helpful;  that 
may  be  taken  for  granted.  His  stories  Lave  always 
been  characterized  by  those  qualities  and  in  the  one 
before  us  they  are  particularly  prominent.  There  is 
always  a  purpose  in  his  books,  an  influence  which  remains 
after  the  mere  incidents  of  the  story  are  forgotten.  He  has 
painted  a  variety  of  characters,  good  and  bad,  in  After 
the  Freshet,  all  of  which  have  a  special  mission  to  per- 
form. The  main  character  of  the  story  is  Arthur  Manley,  a 
young  man  of  fine  talents  and  noble  character,  who  has  been 
brought  up  in  a  rough  farmer's  family  in  ignorance  of  his 
parentage.  From  the  fact  that  he  has  become  a  great  favor- 
ite with  a  wealthy  family  in  town,  he  has  incurred  the 
dislike  of  an  unprincipled  lawyer,  who  has  designs  upon 
that  family,  and  who  resorts  to  a  series  of  persecutions  in 
order  to  get  him  out  of  the  way.  The  story  of  how  he 
evades  the  plots  of  his  enemy  and  how  he  ultimately  dis- 
covers the  secret,  of  his  birth  and  achieves  the  other  and 
higher  ambitions  of  his  life,  is  vividly  and  affectingly  told. 

TODAYS  AXD  YESTERDAYS.  By  Carrie  Adelaide  Cooke. 
Boston  :  D.  Lothrop  &  Co  Price  $1.25.  This  pleasant 
story  is  from  the  pen  of  the  author  of  From  June  to  June, 
and  is  intended  for  the  reading  of  girls  who  havs  reached 
that  age  when  their  real  mission  in  life  seems  to  commence-, 
the  age  when  school-days  are  ended,  and  the  sphere  of  duty 
i*  enlarged  by  wider  acquaintance  and  new  responsibilities. 
The  story  opens  at  a  New  Hampshire  seminary  on  the  eve 
of  examination  day.  and  the  principal  characters  are  three 
girls,  school-companions  and  fellow-graduates.  It  is  not  a 
story  of  incident,  nor  does  its  interest  depend  upon  strong 
contrasts  or  vivid  descriptions.  The  narrative  is  a  quid 
following  out  of  the  currents  of  these  three  lives,  with_  their 
various  changes,  their  joys  and  sorrows.  A  strong  religious 
element  permeates  the  book,  and  it  will  be  found  a  valuab* 
•  dditicn  to  Sunday-school  literature. 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 


MBS.  SOLOMON  SMITH  LOOKING  ON.  By  Pansy.  Boston: 
D.  Lothrop  &  Co.  Price  $1.50.  The  fount  of  Mrs.  Alden's 
inspiration  seems  inexhaustible.  So  long  as  an  evil  exists 
lu  family  or  society  which  may  be  remedied,  wrongs  which 
may  be  righted,  or  abuses  that  may  be  done  away  with, 
so  long  —  until  her  world's  work  is  done  —  we  may  count 
on  finding  her  pen  busy  in  the  good  work.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  know  how  many  hearts  had  been  tightened, 
how  many  doubting  souls  made  strong,  how  much  real  good 
done  in  the  world  by  this  same  pen.  The  present  story  has 
for  its  principal  character  an  old  country  lady  of  primitive 
ways,  but  who  is  deeply  and  practically  religious,  besides 
being  gifted  with  an  unusual  share  of  shrewdness  and  sound 
common  sense.  She  is  a  keen  observer,  and  her  comments 
on  people  and  things  are  always  to  the  point.  She  goes  to 
the  city  from  her  country  home  on  a  short  visit,  and  while 
&ere  attends  a  Sunday-school  convention.  Her  description* 
of  ifc  and  of  the  people  who  attended  it  is  true  to  the  life,  and 
contains  a  good  many  sharp  truths.  (Subsequent  journeys 
to  the  homes  of  different  relatives  give  her  opportunities  of 
studying  human  nature  on  the  road,  in  public  places  and  in 
the  domestic  circle.  She  always  has  a  word  at  the  right 
time,  and  says  it  in  the  most  effective  way  ;  never  angrily, 
sarcastically  or  rebukingly,  but  kindly,  and  with  a  tact  and 
directness  which  always  penetrates  the  joints  of  the  harness 
and  does  its  work.  But  the  interest  of  the  work  does  not 
lie  wholly  in  the  sayings  and  doings  of  Mrs.  Solomon  Smith. 
There  are  plenty  of  other  characters.  Some  of  them  exceed- 
ingly well-drawn,  and  the  story  in  which  they  all  play  a  part, 
•  full  of  incident  and  happily  told. 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 

YOUNG  FOLKS'  HISTORY  OF  AMERICA.  Edited  by  Heze- 
kiah  Butterworth.  Boston  :  D.  Lbthrop  &  Co.  Price  $1.50. 
Iu  form  and  general  appearance  this  is  an  exceedingly  attract- 
ive volume.  The  paper  is  good,  the  type  clear,  and  the  illus- 
trations \vitli  which  its  pages  are  crowded  are  well  chosen 
And  finely  engraved.  Mr.  Butterworth  has  selected  for  the 
basis  of  his  work  McKenzie's  "History  of  the  United 
States,"  which  was  published  in  England  several  years  ago. 
The  text  has  been  thoroughly  revised,  changes  made  where 
necessary,  fresh  matter  introduced  and  new  chapters  added, 
the  remodelled  work  being  admirably  adapted  for  use  in 
schools  or  for  home  reading.  It  sketches  succinctly  and  yet 
clearly  the  gradual  development  of  the  country  from  the 
time  of  the  landing  of  Columbus  down  to  the  present; 
brings  into  relief  the  principal  occurrences  and  incidents  in 
our  national  history  ;  explains  the  policy  of  the  republic, 
and  gives  brief  biographies  of  the  statesmen  and  soldiers 
who  have  rendered  especial  services  to  the  country.  The 
narrative  is  brought  down  to  the  present  moment, "and  in- 
cludes an  account  of  the  inauguration  of  Garfield,  with 
sketches  of  the  members  of  his  cabinet.  An  appendix  con- 
tains a  list  of  the  Presidents  and  Vice  Presidents  of  the 
United  States,  with  the  dates  of  their  qualifications;  statis- 
tics showing  the  population  and  area  of  the  states  and  terri- 
tories, a  list  of  the  cities  and  towns  of  the  United  States  hav- 
ing a  population  of  ten  thousand  and  upwards,  according  to 
the  census  of  1880,  and  a  chronological  table  of  events. 
There  is,  besides,  an  exhaustive  index.  The  work  should 
find  a  place  in  every  home  library. 

WARLOCK  o'  GLENWARLOCK.  By  George  MacDonald. 
Illustrated.  Boston:  D.  Loth rop  &  Co.  Price  $1.50.  This 
charming  story,  by  one  of  the  foremost  English  writers  of 
the  time,  which  has  appeared  in  the  form  of  monthly  sup- 
plements to  WIDE  AWAKE,  will  be  brought  out  early  this 
fall  in  complete  book  form  uniform  in  style  with  A  Sea 
Board  Parish,  and  Annals  of  a  Quiet  Neighborhood.  It  is 
a  picture  of  Scotch  life  and  character,  such  as  none  but  Mi*. 
MacDonald  can  paint;  full  of  life  and  movement,  enlivened 
with  bursts  of  humor,  shaded  by  touches  of  pathos,  and 
showing  keen  powers  of  analysis  in  working  out  the  charac- 
ters of  the  principal  actors  in  the  story.  The  book  was  set 
from  the  author's  own  manuscript,  and  appears  here  siinuA 
taneously  with  the  English  edition. 


D   LOTHROP  &  CO:S  NEW  BOOKS. 

D.  LOTHROP  &  Co.  present  a  remarkably  attractive 
IJst  of  new  publications  possessing  genuine  value  from 
every  point  of  view,  as  will  be  evident  from  the  follow- 
ing notes.  The  literature  offered,  which  includes  his- 
tory, biography,  general  literature,  romance,  poetry, 
and  various  scientific  works,  presents  a  sufficiently 
wide  range  to  meet  the  needs  of  all  classes  of  readers. 

A  Family  Flight  Around  Home,  and  a  Family 
Flight  Through  Mexico  are  the  two  latest  volumes  of  the 
Family  Flight  Series,  by  Edward  Everett  and  Susan  Hale,  and 
deal  largely  with  the  picturesque  side  of  history,  as  well  as  of  life 
and  scenery  in  the  countries  treated.  Illustrated,  extra  cloth,  $2.50. 

Art  for  Young  Folks.  Contains  a  description  of  an 
art  school  for  children  in  New  York;  biographies  and  portraits 
of  twenty-four  of  the  leading  American  artists,  with  engravings  of 
paintings,  studios,  etc.,  etc.  Quarto,  boards,  $2.00;  cloth 
gilt,  fo.oc 

Boys  and  Girls'  Annual,  1885.  Contains  original 
stories  expressly  prepared  by  the  best  of  living  authors  who  are 
favorites  with  the  young  folks.  Extra  cloth,  gilt,  $3.00. 

Our  Little  Men  and  Women.  Contains  a  miscellany 
more  charming  than  ever.  Dainty  short  stories  with  seventy-five 
full-page  attractive  illustrations,  and  countless  smaller  ones.  It  is 
especially  suited  for  use  in  homes  and  schools,  having  a  variety 
of  articles  on  plant-life,  natural  history,  and  like  subjects,  written 
most  attractively  to  please  the  little  ones.  Among  serial  articles 
of  permanent  value  are  "  Kings  and  Queens  at  Home,"  "  Stories 
of  Favorite  Authors,"  "  Nests  and  Nest  Builders,"  and  Margaret 
Sidney's  "  Polly."  Quarto,  illuminated  cover,  $1.50:  cloth,  $1.00. 

'We  Young  Folks.  All  young  people  will  be  attracted  by 
this  book  with  its  stories  of  hunting  and  fishing,  of  life  in  the 
"good  old  times,"  of  famous  men  and  women,  etc.  Lithograph 
covers,  $1.50. 

The  Children  of  Westminster  Abbey.    By  Rose 

O.  Kingsley,  daughter  of  Canon  Kingsley.  Reading  Union  Li- 
brary. Profusely  illustrated  from  photographs  and  old  prints,  i6mo, 
cloth,  $1.00.  A  graphic  descriptive  narrative  of  all  that  relates  to 
the  old  Abbey,  with  stories  of  secret  statecraft,  gorgeous  pageants 
of  weddings,  christenings  and  coronations,  and  a  fine  description 
of  the  old  Abbey  itself. 


£>.  LOTHROP  dr>  CO:S  NEW  BOOKS. 

Wonder  Stories  Of  Science.  Popular  studies  in  ele- 
mentary science,  by  various  authors,  very  fully  illustrated.  i6mo, 
doth,  $1.50. 

Pine  Cones.  By  Willis  Boyd  Allen.  i2mo,  cloth,  illus- 
trated, $1.00.  A  story  of  adventure  for  girls  and  boys  by  an  author 
who  possesses  the  secret  of  success  as  a  writer  for  the  young. 

What's  Mine's  Mine.  By  Geo.  MacDonald,  author  of 
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Chautauq.ua  Young1  Folks'  Annual,  1885     This 

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and  Within,  which  is  regarded  by  most  Ameri- 
cans as  the  standard  book  on  the  subject.  The 
author  has  a  way  of  making  readers  see  what  he 
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he  describes  charmingly  the  scenery  of  the  various 
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ments which  Englishmen  have  made  about  them- 
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as  facts.  He  tells  us,  for  instance,  that  English 
boys  are  not  so  strong  and  vigorous  looking  as 
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the  contrary  lias  no  real  foundation.  It  is  written 
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made  upon  the  public  mind,  yet  fresh,  will  be 
deepened  and  made  more  enduring  by  the  con- 
tents of  this  volume.  The  compiler  truly  says 
that  no  words  of  approval  are  needed  in  introduc- 
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Atlantic  like  the  warm  hand-clasp  of  a  brother." 
Miss  Porter  alludes  to  the  fact  that  there  are  those 
who,  while  they  admire  the  writings  of  Canon 
Farrar,  gravely  fear  their  tendency  when  they  deal 
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their  fear  being  lest  he  opens  heaven's  gate  too 
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pages  of  his  well-known  work  Mercy  and  Judgment. 
Like  all  the  preceding  ones  of  the  Series,  it  is  beau- 
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volume,  we  have  yet  to  know  of  it.  The  very  best 
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Alexander  the  Great,  Hannibal  and  King  Arthur ; 
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HISTORY  OP  CHINA.  By  Robert  K.  Douglas. 
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more.  No  book  yet  published  bears  any  comparison  with  this 
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IN  CASE  OP  ACCIDENT.  By  Dr.  D.  A.  Sargent. 
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RED  LETTER  STORIES.  Translated  from  tJie  Ger- 
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WITHIN  THE  SHADOW.  By  Dorothy  Holroyd. 
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A  portrait  accompanies  each  biography.  Price  $i.co. 

THE  ARNOLD  BIRTHDAY  BOOK.  Edited  by  kit 
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A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  (A 
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D.  Lothrop  &-'  Company's  New  Books. 

STORIES  FROM  THE  PANS  Y.  A  library  of  delight- 
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IN  THE  WOODS  AND  OUT.  By  Pansy.  Here  is  a 
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Illustrated,  izmo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

COULDN'T  BE  BOUGHT.  A  book  far  Hie  Sunday- 
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INTERRUPTED.  By  Pansy  (Mrs.  G.  R.  A Iden).  It  has 
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LIFT  UP  YOUR  HEARTS.  Compiled  and  arranged 
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Bound  in  red  doth.  2  5  cents. 

BACCALAUREATE  SERMONS.  By  Rev.  A.  P. 
Peabody,  D.D.,  LL.  D.  The  sermons  contained  in  this  volume, 
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BOOKS  BY  POPULAR  AUTHORS 

Ella  Farman,  a  graceful  writer  as  well  as  the  accomplished  and  success- 
ful editor  of  WIDE  AWAKE  ;  Julia  A.  Eastman,  whose  school  life  stories 
are  full  of  sparkling  expression  and  incisive  knowledge  of  human  nature  ; 
Rev.  J.  L.  Pratt,  who  writes  with  rare  appreciation  of  the  needs  of 
young  people  who  are  beginning  to  examine  for  themselves  into  religious 
beliefs  and  opinions;  Mrs.  A.  E.  Porter,  whose  stories  are  well  calculated 
to  make  truthfulness,  steadfastness  and  right  living  the  subjects  of  youth- 
ful admiration  ;  the  author  of  Andy  Luttrell,  whosa  books,  dealing  with 
knotty  problems,  and  positive  in  religious  teachings,  are  perennial  favor- 
ites; Mrs.  E.  D.  Kendajl,  whose  writings,  excellent  for  boys,  are  marked 
by  an  earnestness  of  purpose  well  calculated  to  impress  life  lessons; 
Mary  J.  Capron,  whose  healthful  and  stimulating  stories  point  lo  right 
ideas  on  the  fundamental  truths  of  Christian  religion ;  Rev.  Z.  A. 
Mudge,  a  favorite  Sunday-school  writer;  these  are  among  the  popular 
authors  whose  works  can  be  unhesitatingly  accepted  as  worthy  of  admit- 
tance to  Sunday-school  or  family  libraries. 

ELLA  FARMAN'S  BOOKS. 
9  vols.,  i2>fio,  ilhist.,  $10.00. 

Annie  Maylie.  Grandma  Crosby's  Household. 

A  Little  Woman.  Good-for-Nothing  Polly. 

A  Girl's  Money.  How  Two  Girls  Tried  Farming. 

A  White  Hand.  Cooking  Club  of  Tu-Whit  Hollow 

Mrs.  Kurd's  Niece. 

JULIA  A.  EASTMAN'S  BOOKS. 

6  vols*,  izmo,  ilhist,  $7.50. 

Kitty  Kent.  Romneys  of  Ridgemont  (The). 

Young  Rick.  Schooldays  of  Beulah  Romney. 

Striking  for  the  Right.  Short  Comings  and  Long  Goings. 

REV.  J.  L.  PRATT'S  BOOKS. 

4  vols.,  i2tno,  illust.,  $6.00. 

Evening  Rest.       Branches  of  Palm.       Bonnie  JErie.        Broken  Fetter* 
MRS.  A.  E.  PORTER'S  BOOKS. 

5  vols.,  i2Mo,  illust.,  $6.25. 

This  One  Thing  I  do.  Sunset  Mountain. 

Millie  Lee.  My  Hero.  Glencoe  Parsonage. 

BY  AUTHOR  OF  ANDY  LUTTRELL. 

6  vols.,  12010,  illust.,  $7.50. 

Andy  Luttrell.  Strawberry  Hill.  Barbara. 

Silent  Tom.  Talbury  Girls.  Hidden  Treasure. 

MRS.  E.  D.  KENDALL'S  BOOKS. 

3  vols.,  i2t>io,  illust.,  $3.75. 
Judge's  Sons.  Master  and  Pupil. 

The  Stamfords  of  Staniford's  Folly. 

MARY  J.  CAPRON'S  BOOKS. 

4  vols.,  izmo.,  illust.,  $5.00. 

Plus  and  Minus.  Maybee's  Stepping  Stones. 

Gold  and  Gilt.  Mrs.  Thome's  Guests. 

REV.  Z.  A.  MUDGE'S  BOOKS. 

3  vols.,  i2»to,  Must.,  $3.75. 
Shell  Cove.  Luck  of  Alden  Farm.  Boat  Builders. 

W.  H.  G.  KINGSTON'S  BOOKS. 

8  vols.,  i2tno,  illust.,  $8.00. 

Voyage  of  the  Steadfast.         Young  Whaler.        Charley  Laurel. 
Fisher  Boy.  Virginia.  Peter  the  Ship  Boy 

Little  Ben  Hadden.  Ralph  and  Dick. 


MARIE  OLIVER'S  STORIES. 

3  vols,  I2mo  cloth,  illustrated,  $1.50  each;  the  set  $4.50. 

RUBY  HAMILTON.  OLD  AND  NEW  FRIENDS. 

SEBA'S  DISCIPLINE. 

Extracts  from  comments  of  well-known  journals. 
RUBY  HAMILTON. 

This  is  a  very  excellent  Sunday-school  book,  which  can  be 
honestly  commended  for  youthful  readers. —  TheWatchman. 

It  is  a  well-told  story,  conveys  a  pure,  healthful  lesson,  and 
is  one  of  the  best  books  of  its  class. — Philadelphia  Enquirer. 

This  is  one  of  the  best  Sunday-school  books  in  Lothrop's 
long  and  admirable  list.  The  story  is  a  sweet  one,  and 
charmingly  told. — Church  Mirror. 

The  spirit  throughout  is  healthy  and  devout.  .  .  .  Al- 
together it  is  a  charming  and  instructive  book. —  The  Church- 
man. 

OLD  AND  NEW  FRIENDS. 

A  very  excellent  specimen  of  the  class  of  fiction  designed 
for  young  folk  who  have  ceased  to  be  children  without 
having  become  mature  men  and  women. — N.  Y.  Evening 
Post. 

Many  readers  will  remember  "  Ruby  Hamilton,"  a  volume 
which  created  quite  a  sensation  at  the  time  of  its  publication. 
.  This  volume,  a  continuation  of  this  story,  ought  to 
become  as  popular  as  its  predecessor. — Christian  Alirror. 

Contains  some  charming  pictures  of  home-life.  .  .  . 
Cannot  but  help  and  strengthen  the  boy  whose  impulses 
are  for  good. — Herald  and  Presbyter. 

Like  all  that  comes  from  this  author's  pen,  this  volume 
has  merits  of  both  substance  and  style. —  Western  Christian 
Advocate. 

Adds  another  to  the  list  of  really  gooj  story  books.— 
Cincinnati  Journal  and  Messenger. 

SEBA'S  DISCIPLINE. 

A  good  book  to  teach  the  uses  of  trouble  in  building  up  char- 
acter.—  Western  Recorder. 

Has  a  varied  and  absorbing  interest  from  its  beginning  to  its 
close.  .  .  .  Sometimes  saa  and  wonderfully  pathetic ;  some- 
times bright  and  cheerful,  it  is  impressive  always.  In  every 
respect  it  is  the  best  religious  story  we  have  seen  for  many  a 
day,  and  one  .  .  .  that  can  scarcely  fail  to  benefit  any 
reader  whom  God  leads  along  rough  paths. —  The  Interior. 

Should  be  in  every  Sunday-school  library. —  The  Standard 


MARGARET    SIDNEY'S    BOOKS. 

Margaret  Sidney  may  be  safely  set  down  as  one  of  the  best  writers  of 
juvenile  literature  in  the  country.  — Boston  Transcript. 

Margaret  Sidney's  books  are  happily  described  as  "  strong  and  pure 
from  cover  to  cover,  .  .  bright  and  piquan  as  the  mountain  breezes,  or 
a  dash  on  pony  back  of  a  June  morning."  'I  he  same  writer  speaks  of  her 
as  "  An  American  authoress  who  will  hold  her  own  in  the  competitive 
§ood  work  executed  by  the  many  bright  writing  women  of  to-day." 

There  are  few  better  story  writers  than  Margaret  Sidney.  —  Herald 
*nd  Presbyter. 

Comments  of  the  Secular  and  Religious  Press. 

FIVE  LITTLE  PEPPERS  AND   HOW  THEY  GREW. 

A  charming  work.  .  .  The  home  scenes  in  which  these  little  Pep- 
pers are  engaged  are  capitally  described.  .  .  Will  find  prominent  place 
among  the  higher  class  of  juvenile  presentation  books. — Religious  Herald. 

One  of  the  best  told  tales  given  to  the  children  for  some  time.  .  . 
The  perfect  reproduction  of  child-life  in  its  minutest  phases,  catches  one's 
attention  at  once.  —  Christian  A  dvocate. 

A  good  book  to  place  in  the  hands  of  every  boy  or  girl.  —  Chicago 
Inter-Ocean. 

SO  AS  BY  FIRE. 

Will  be  hailed  with  eager  delight,  and  found  well  worth  reading. — 
Christian  Observer. 

An  admirable  Sunday-school  book  — Arkansas  Evangel. 

We  have  followed  with  intense  interest  the  story  of  David  Folson.     . 

.     A  man  poor,  friendless,  and  addicted  to  drink;     .     .     the  influence 
of  little  Cricket ;     .     .     the  faithful  care  of  aunt   Phebe ;    all  steps  by 
which  he  climbed  to  higher  manhood.  —  Woman  at  Work. 
THE  PETTIBONE  NAME. 

It  is  one  of  the  finest  pieces  of  American  fiction  that  has  been  pub- 
lished for  some  time.  —  Newsdealers'1  Bulletin,  New  York. 

It  ought  to  attract  wide  attention  from  the  simplicity  of  its  style,  and 
the  vigor  and  originality  of  its  treatment.  —  Chicago  Herald. 

This  is  a  capital  story  illustrating  New  England  life.  —  Inter-Ocean, 
Chicago. 

The  characters  of  the  story  seem  all  to  be  studies  from  life.  —  Boston 
Post. 

It  is  a  New  England  tale,  and  its  characters  are  true  to  the  original 
type,  and  show  careful  study  and  no  little  skill  in  portraiture.  —  Christian 
at  Work,  New  York. 

To  be  commended  to  readers  for  excellent  delineations,  sparkling  style, 
bright  incident  and  genuine  interest  —  The  Watchman. 

A  capital  story ;  bright  with  excellent  sketches  of  character.     Conveys 
good  moral  and  spiritual   lessons.     .     .     In  short,  the  book  is  in  every 
way  well  done.    -  Illustrated  Christian  Weekly. 
HALF  YEAR  AT  BRONCKTON. 

A  live  boy  writes :  "  This  is  about  the  best  book  that  ever  was  written 
or  ever  can  be." 

"  This  bright  and  earnest  story  ought  to  go  into  the  hands  of  every  bo] 
who  is  old  enough  to  be  subjected  to  the  temptations  of  school  life." 


The    Yensie    Walton    Books. 

These  books,  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  S.  R.  Graham  CUrk,  are  possessed 
of  such  conspicuous  merits,  as  to  secure  for  them  the  unqualified  com- 
mendation of  eminent  religious  journals  such  as  the  Central  Christian 
Adtiocate,  The  Journal  and  Messenger,  7 ho  Neio  Orleans  Christian 
Advocate,  The  Lutheran  Observer,  Christian  at  Work.  The  Dover 
Morning  Star,  The  Gospel  Banner,  Philadelphia  Methodist,  Herald 
and  Presbyter. 

YENSIE  WALTON.  OUR  STREET. 

YENSIE  WALTON'S  WOMAMHOOD. 
THE  TRIPLE  E.  ACHOR. 

i2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  uniform  binding,  $1.50  each. 
YENSIE  WALTON. 

"  Yensie  Walton,"  by  Mrs.  S.  R.  Graham  Clark.  Boston  :  D.  Loth, 
rop  &  Co.  Full  of  striking  incident  and  scenes  of  great  pathos,  with 
occasional  gleams  of  humor  and  fun  by  way  of  relief  to  the  more  tragic 
parts  of  the  narrative.  The  characters  are  strongly  drawn,  and,  in  gen- 
eral, are  thoroughly  human,  not  gifted  with  impossible  perfections,  but 
having  those  infirmities  of  the  flesh  which  make  us  all  akin.  It  will  take 
rank  among  the  best  and  most  popular  Sunday-school  books. —  Episcopal 
Register. 

A  pure  sweet  story  of  girl  life,  quiet,  and  yet  of  sufficient  interest  to  hold 
thfe  attention  of  the  most  careless  reader. — Ziou's  Advocate. 
YENSIE  WALTON'S  WOMANHOOD. 

The  many  readers  who  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  "  Yensie  Wai- 
ton"  in  one  of  the  best  Sunday-school  books  ever  published,  will  be  de- 
lighted to  renew  that  acquaintance,  and  to  keep  their  former  companion 
still  further  company  through  life.  There  is  a  strong  religious  tone  to  the 
whole  story,  and  its  teachings  of  morality  and  religion  are  pure  and 
healthful  and  full  of  sweetness  and  beauty.  The  story  is  a  worthy  suc- 
cessor to  Mrs.  Clark's  previous  work. — Boston  Post. 

The  heroine  is  an  excellent  character  for  imitation,  and  the  entire  atmos. 
phere  of  the  book  is  healthful  and  purifying. — Pittsburg  Cliristian  Advo- 
cate. 
OUR  STREET, 

By  the  same  author,  is  a  capital  story  of  every  day  life  which  deals  with 
genuine  character  in  a  most  interesting  manner. 

THE  TRIPLE  E, 

Just  published,  is  a  book  whose  provoking  title  will  be  st  once  acknowl- 
edged by  the  reader  as  an  appropriate  one.    It  fully  sustains  the  author'* 
reputation. 
AC~HOR,  a  new  book  . 


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